


SHATTERED

by RunePhoenix6769



Series: SHATTERED [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, Heavy Angst, Morally Grey, Pharmercy, Slow Build, Thriller, Widowtracer, spy shit, tracemaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-07-28 16:45:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunePhoenix6769/pseuds/RunePhoenix6769
Summary: Told from 4 POV'sAmelie/Widowmaker attempts to break free only to find people in her past unwilling to let her be.A Doctor hellbent on correcting her mistakes.A Security Officer left out of the loop.And a Pilot left with more questions than answers.Is the paragon of virtue, what it seems?REFLECTIONS IS A PREQUEL. RECOMMENDED READING TO GET A FEEL OF AMELIE/WIDOWMAKER'S HEADSPACE AND PSYCHE.(Tracer isnt overly friendly at first. Slow burn)





	1. Shattered 1

‘Shattered’

Widow dragged herself across the creaking worn floorboards; each inch gained a laborious effort, attempting to ignore the excruciating stomach cramps instead trying to focus on her destination. 

Not for a second had she thought starting on the path to freedom would be easy and she had taken great care to make preparations for her final flight knowing withdrawals would be one of many side effects, but she hadn’t expected this. 

This was the tenth day past calling in and she had ran out of the Talon prescribed medication days ago and had been forced to resort to other methods. 

“Get up!” Amelie scolded, “You were a prima ballerina for God’s sake.” 

But this wasn’t like Amelie peeling off her dead toe nails after hours of ballet practice; this was Widow’s every synapse aching yet at the same time static. This wasn’t like the hangovers Amelie used to suffer from drinking expensive wines and champagne, this was Widow’s skin rippling and all at once shrinking. This wasn’t like food poisoning Amelie and her husband, Gerard, had once suffered after eating seafood on a cruise ship, this was Widow’s insides contracting until she thought her bones would break.

Here on the floor of a dingy apartment in the worst part of town, Widow lay curled in on herself clutching a hand gun in a vice like grip, her knuckles white in contrast to her cyan skin drenched in her own sweat, hearing the voices of ghosts long past and seeing flickers of shadows on the walls.

It hadn’t seemed so bad at first, the shakes shivers and slight muscle cramps she had experienced before when on deep cover missions that had gone slightly overdue she had unexpectedly run out of medication. It was usually rectified by an injection Moira prescribed that was only for emergencies. 

She had been unable to obtain one, the Talon Doctor keeping everything under fingerprinted lock and key. The French sniper had been forced to come up with an alternative, commissioning a contact of Sombra’s to synthesise an imitation of her usual cocktail. How could she have been so foolish to believe that a gang banging back street pharmacist would be capable of reverse engineering medication created by a brilliant physician?

With an agonised moan, Widow rolled onto her back. The off yellow artificial light overhead stung her eyes only exacerbating the dull throbbing headache. Squinting from this vantage point Amelie noticed the bulging wallpaper, stippled with black dots of mould. The floorboards vibrated with a thumping bass line jostling her already taunt muscles, cars honked and revved in the street below. Widow could hear feet shuffling as people passed in the hallways and the scratching of creatures burrowed in the walls. Out of the corner of her eye a cockroach scuttled too close for Amelie’s comfort but Widow couldn’t find it in her to care.

“Get up!” Amelie screamed in frustration, echoing in Widow’s head causing her teeth to rattle to their very core. 

A non-existent breeze goose bumped her skin, raking across her flesh like glass; the waft of fetid air permeated her nostrils, the sweet smell of decay. Maybe an old woman long forgotten, being devoured by her cats? 

Widow’s stomach lurched.

With the last ounce of Amelie’s strength Widow crawled on her hands and knees to the tiny bathroom, willing herself forward as she crawled into the bottom of the shower. Violently she retched, her back bowing and hands struggling to find purchase on the cheap plastic as she expelled dark viscous liquid. It dangled from her lips in ropey globs, pooling in the basin, its purple hue mocking her as merged with her unkempt hair.

Recoiling in disgust, her tenuous grip gave way pitching her forward painfully into the bottom of the shower and into her own vomit, listlessly Amelie flailed until coming in contact with the shower tap. 

Freezing cold water battered her tender skin as she rested in her underwear, breath coming in short staccatos. The thrumming of the water couldn’t drown out the sounds of the blood sluggishly pumping through her veins. Instantly the needle like pains in her chest became ice picks. Biting into her hand she let out a pained shriek.

A thought like a jolt of lightening,

“We are going to die here!” 

This was not the way she was going out, not like this, sobbing on the bathroom floor like a 1950’s housewife. Gripping the shower curtain only served to rip it from its rings. Instead Amelie stretched as Widow hooked her foot through the strap of her bag, pulling it off the sink and scattering its contents all over the tiles.

The phone case shot out of her slippery hands and she scrabbled forward depositing herself half in the shower and half on the tiled floor. Struggling to focus as the individual letter swam on the screen almost as if refusing to be pinned down, Widow typed out a message begging her only friend to reach out to the only other Doctor in the world who might be able to understand her physiology.

Message sent, she listlessly slumped forward, slipping into the world of stage lights and surgeon lamps.


	2. CHAPTER TWO     TRACER

‘Shattered!’ 

(TRACER)

 

When a call for help had reached Overwatch via ancient back channels Winston had long thought defunct, the Senior officers had cloistered themselves in the main office.

Tracer, scuffing the tips of her toes underneath her chair, observed the various other members of the team that had gathered for the last hour in the nearby cafeteria, each pretending like they weren’t waiting to find out why the sudden clandestine meeting had been called. Mcree lounged on the battered sofa, arms casually crossed and his perpetually dusty cowboy boots propped on a nearby chair. Genji, head bowed concentrating on sharpening his sword as D-Va tapped away furiously on her hand held console, the cable of her earphones unconnected and dangling uselessly. Everyone refused to acknowledge each other as viewable through the sheet glass wall behind them, the body language of a heated argument played out. 

The palpable silence was suddenly broken as Fareeha, features contorted in rage, exited the room slamming the door with a bang , leaving a string of expletives in a mixture of English and Arabic in her wake as she stormed down the corridor back into the depths of the compound. The sound of whet stone on tempered steel stopped, D-Va collected her things before hastily taking off in the opposite direction of the irate soldier.

“Wonder what that was about?” Tracer asked in a bid to break the tension. 

McCree peered at her from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat, the cigar caught between his lips momentarily pausing before it continued to roll on its journey to the other side of his mouth. He gave the young agent a non- committal shrug.  
The Senior officers began to file out of the room, each going in their own direction. Morrison leaned through the door into the corridor,

“Oxton!” He barked, causing Lena to flinch in her seat, 

“Cap?”

“With Angela and Fareeha. Now!” The grizzled super soldier’s gaze paused briefly on the battered cowboy before growling almost as an afterthought, “Take Shimada with you.”

Jumping out of her chair, the Londoner snapped off a salute, 

“Yes, Sir!”

Genji sheathed his sword, slowly unfurling as he muttered in his soft voice,

“I would only be happy to assist.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The small hovercraft landed in the wide plaza of what had once been an Omnic housing facility. Now it had given way to a decrepit slum. Peering out of the window into darkest recesses of the square, Lena could make out humans and Omnic alike huddled round burning oil barrels in an attempt to stave off the savage winter that had gripped Europe in its unforgiving clutches. Testing the straps of her chronal accelerator and checking her pistols for the second time, Tracer enquired, 

“What are we doing here?”

Fareeha grunted in reply as she tightened her flak jacket over her solid athletic frame and slid a knife into its holster. Head bowed and continuing to go through her away mission med kit, Angela answered, 

“We have been asked to assist in securing a Talon operative.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

The Egyptian solider ripped open the armoury locker,

“I want it stated for the record, I did not agree to this.”

“Fareeha!” Mercy began softly.

Fareeha forcefully cut her off, shaking her head as she selected a pulse pistol and a number of flash grenades. “Don’t Angela. Just don’t!”

Looking between the pair, Lena diplomatically pressed, 

“What is the back up from the local authorities? Police?” She peered back out of the window. By the looks of this place, no police would frequent here unless forced. “Private Security?”

Fareeha unceremoniously shoved the pistol in her gun holster,

“You are the backup!”

Lena blinked in surprise, exclaiming, 

“What?” Looking between all three of her team mates she took a moment before continuing, “Wait a sodding minute,” She gestured with her hands for emphasis, “Is this even sanctioned?”

The Egyptian soldier cocked her head slightly and quirked her eyebrows as the medic remained mute avoiding eye contact. Tracer began to pace along the galley, shaking her head before whirling round, 

“Let me get this straight.” She stabbed the palm of her left hand with her finger, “We are here in a civilian hub to retrieve a Talon operative! ” Her voice angrily raised an octave, “Completely unsanctioned?”

Silence was her reply. Cupping her nose and her mouth in her hands, Lena took a deep breath attempting to stem the bubbling anger. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” She screamed,“Isnt this what got us into trouble in the first place, under cover ops?”

“Exactly my point” The brawny woman replied.

Lena rubbed her face with her hands, sinking into her seat, 

“At least tell me the intel is solid!”

Angela’s eyebrows knitted together as she zipped up her bag, a steely edge to her voice,

“Winston assured us that it came from a reputable source.”

Genji sagely stated,

“There is no such thing as a reputable source where Talon is concerned.”

The Swiss Doctor suddenly snapped in frustration,

“Would you all kindly shut up!” Haughtily pulling on the lapels of her medical jacket, “Lets complete the objective and get home!”

Bristling, Fareeha turned about slamming the button for the bay doors to open. 

“Genji, reconnoitre the surroundings, eliminate all and any threats.” The cyborg ninja swiftly took off, disappearing under the weak street lights into the shadows. The lieutenant motioned to Tracer, “You take point, Dr Ziegler in the middle and I’ll bring up the rear.”

They moved as a well-oiled unit, ignoring the suspicious stares from the residents they passed. They must have looked out of place in this ramshackle high rise, Fareeha in her imposing black combat gear, Lena in her unmarked blue Overwatch uniform and Angela, a large medical bag embossed with a Red Cross and Caduceus symbol slung over her shoulder. 

They cautiously made their way down a paint peeled hallway, checking every digital number flickering over the apartment doors. Lena wrinkled her nose. The whole place smelt of stale smoke and boiled cabbage over laying other odours that didn’t bare thinking about. Somewhere a child gave a colically cry, causing Angela to falter. 

“Angela.” Fareeha said gently, “We can’t.”

“I know.” Gripping the strap of her Med bag, the Doctor softly replied.

From behind every door came the sounds of people eking through on the fringes of life, only the poorest of the poor, the forgotten, the disenfranchised and those that didn’t wish to be found lived here. It reminded Lena of the old high rises that once over had dotted the London skyline. In his last days, her grandfather had lived in one of them, his RAF pension just about covering the basics as rent prices had sky rocketed along with pound signs in the eyes of the slum lords. It had been a sad end for a life lived with honour in service of his country. 

How in this modern day with all the world’s new technology and wealth were people still living like this? It rankled the young agent’s already fragile nerves. Stepping over the prone form of a passed out man, Lena whispered,

“What number was it again?”

Bending to check the vitals of the misfortune, Mercy replied,

“215.”

“Righty o, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She blinked forward, Fareeha’s warning falling on deaf ears. 

Speeding up small flights of stairs and past mismatched doors, she caught the numbers 210, 211, 212 213 214 216 217, before screeching to a halt. Retracing her steps, she crouched low her pistols in hand as she once again checked, her eyes alighting on the numbers 521 sporadically flickering in no discernible pattern over a non-descript brown door. Light of foot she crept closer checking her surroundings as she reached out with one leather clad hand to warily test the digital keypad only to find it locked shut. She waited alert and patiently for the other two operatives to catch up. 

Mercy stood back, as the ex-Helix security lieutenant attached a small EMP to the keypad, mutely signing the plan, Tracer nodded in understanding, her muscles bunched and heart thundering in her chest. Fareeha pressed the button sending small charge into the lock which fizzled and sputtered before clicking undone. Using the element of surprise the young pilot bounded into the apartment, pistols raised, closely followed by her teammate. Both women gasped for breath as the sour stench caused their eyes to water. As they moved further into the apartment clearing it room by room the smell became over powering.

The muffled sound of a shower running caught the pilot’s attention. 

Tracer cocked her head, motioning for the other soldier to follow as she made her way down the hallway towards the noise. A sickly glow emanating from gap in the ajar door reflected off the water pooling against the bowed carpet runner separating the bathroom from the hallway. Cautiously they approached, carpet squelching underfoot as they crept closer. The sound of water drumming a staccato on plastic rang out with no other sounds giving any indication of any occupation. 

With Fareeha on the left and Tracer on the right of the doorway, they exchanged a look. Lena nodded to indicate she was ready. Fareeha crouched, back against the wall as she reached out with two fingers pushing open the unresisting door and in one smooth movement Tracer crowded in. Aghast at the site that greeted her, Lena pin wheeled, her shoes slipping on slick tiles as she tried to retreat catching Fareeha’s surprised gasp,

“Allah be merciful!”

Lena’s world took on a blue hue, all movements outside of the slipstream turning to treacle. The young agent passed Fareeha, witnessed the good Doctor entering the apartment and she was pretty sure she saw the back of her own head before hurtling, pale faced, into a rickity chair. Down the hall she heard Fareeha’s surprised gasp repeated, 

“Allah be merciful!”

“Don’t!” Lena cried out. 

Alarmed, Angela demanded, 

“What’s wrong?”

And for the first time the ever talkative Fly Girl couldn’t find her words. 

“Lena!” the Doctor touched her shoulders, “Are you ok? Is Fareeha ok?”

Haunted brown eyes looked out of ghost white cheeks as she stammered,

“Bloody hell Ange!” A breathe escaped her, “Bloody hell!” 

Leaving the young agent alone, Dr Ziegler went to investigate only to rush back ashen faced to collect her medical supplies.


	3. CHAPTER 3  MERCY

“Shattered , Chapter 3”

 

(MERCY)

 

Leaving a visibly shaken Tracer behind in the living space of the ramshackle apartment, Angela rushed head long down the hallway. The carpet mulch underfoot and the smell of damp intermingled with something that the Doctor was altogether too familiar with.

“Stay back!” Farreha warned, her face a grim mask as she kept her pistol trained through the doorway. 

“Lieutenant, what is it?”

“Just a minute.” The ex-Helix security operative moved out of sight followed by the sound of the shower turning off, before quickly coming back into view gun still held in a steady two handed grip never taking her eyes off whatever lay beyond. Satisfied she motioned to the Doctor,

“Have a look, but don’t get too close.”

Angela cautiously approached using the collar of her jacket to cover her nose to protect herself from the overpowering stench made worse by the heat from an overhead fan. Fareeha used her body to block the entrance, shifting slightly so the Swiss woman could peer over her shoulder into the room.

Angela gasped. The minuscule room was in disarray, walls lined with smudged handprints in a dark substance the Doctor at this juncture couldn’t identify. The floor swimming with off colour, fetid water, in which lay the shape of a person, the destroyed shower curtain obscuring from view the face and much of the body. One cyan hand and mop of dark purple hair poked out from beneath. Fareeha used the toe of her black heavy duty combat boot to lift up the shower curtain, giving it a quick flick to reveal the grisly apparition underneath. With a shocked intake of breath, she jumped back,

“Is that who I think it is?”

Without replying, Angela retrieved her med bag only to come upon the solid frame of the Lieutenant, blocking her entrance,

“What are you doing?” 

“She needs our help!” 

“What if it’s a trap?” 

“Then it’s a trap Fareeha!” 

“We should leave, now!” 

“We can’t leave her like this!” The Doctor argued, gesturing to the prone unconscious woman.

“Yes we can!” 

“Either help me or get out of my way.”

For a moment the Doctor and the lieutenant were locked in a battle of wills glaring at each other. Fareeha’s gaze faltered and her shoulders dropped slightly. 

“If she so much as twitches I won’t hesitate to redecorate this shit hole with her grey matter.”

Angela gave her a wry smile as she squeezed through the miniscule gap afforded her,

“Understood!”

Crouching down she opened her med kit. The only sound in the room the Doctor’s heavy breathing and the snap of rubber as she worked her hands into surgical gloves. She felt Fareeha move beside her in this already claustrophobic space, the muzzle of the pulse pistol in her peripheral vision pointed at Widowmaker’s head. Hesitantly, the Doctor reached out, trying not to flinch when ice cold seeped through the protective layer of latex. With two fingers she began to gently probe the slender neck, searching for a pulse. Unable to find one, she reminded herself that this was one of Moira’s playthings, the usual rules wouldn’t apply. 

In an attempt to clear her mind, she closed her eyes and focused her breathing, trying not to allow the grotesque shape in which her former friend lay take over. Rolling Widow in to her side, Mercy forced herself to remain professional as she tried to ignore the sight of long ago crusted dark streams that led from the Talon sniper’s nose, down her chin n parted ways at her neck. Globs of viscous liquid escaped her lips. Taking a med wipe, the doctor quickly cleared as much as she could until she was quite sure her patient’s air way was clear. Beside her, she heard Fareeha murmur something in Arabic,

The Doctor attempted to push Widow over by her shoulder to give herself more room only to meet resistance in the cramped quarters. Eyes roving over the contorted limbs, Angela announced, 

“I need a bed sheet.” She was met with stony silence. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked up at the stern, Egyptian soldier, “We need to move her.” The lieutenant remained steadfast. “I can’t examine her properly.” Angela pressed, “Not like this.”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

Tossing the med wipe on the floor with force, she said 

“What could she possibly do? Look at her, she’s unconscious!”

“Your safety is my main priority.” Came the stilted reply.

“Please!”

“Fine!”

Holstering her gun, the athletic woman turned, disappearing back down the hallway. Alone, Angela tenderly drew a strand of damp hair out of her former friend’s face. 

Amelie, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

It was all too reminiscent. 

A bright spring morning, Angela had been attending a conference in Paris when the call had come through requesting that she attend the townhouse Gerard Lacroix and his wife shared in the city as disturbing reports of an incident had come through. Information had been sparse, a barley discernible phone call to the base in Switzerland from the Overwatch agent’s hysterical wife was all they had to go on. 

Morrison had assured her that he was on his way that it was probably nothing to worry about, it being more than likely linked to Amelie’s recent return from Talon’s clutches. Time was of the essence, keep the local authorities at arm’s length if need be. If that couldn’t be avoided her job was to subdue the wife whilst Gerard secured all documents. Keep it contained. They couldn’t afford another PR incident, not so closely on the heels of the unmitigated disaster of the Slipstream accident. Gerard knew the drill. 

The press being held back by Officers had been the first indication that something was very wrong. Hover cars blue lights flashing, an Omnic police officer had let her though after inspecting her credentials. The blue and white ticker tape fluttering in the spring morning zephyr had looked out of place on the idyllic cobblestoned drive way flanked by blooming cherry blossoms, twinkling in rays of the mid-morning sun. The apprehensive knot as she walked up that drive way sometimes still, years later, gripped her in the darkest hours of the night. To this day she still recalled the sombre faces of the local officers, some refusing her gaze, others looking at her in pity. One officer had approached her,

“We secured the area, we didn’t want to go in until one of your lot came, but we had no choice.”

White knuckled clasping her bag at her knees, she had enquired,

“Where’s the patient?” 

He had blinked,

“I’m sorry to say Ma’am, there isn’t one.”

Entering that townhouse, a place usually so full of love and life that had now been replaced with a heavy stillness, had taken all her courage. Her feet had felt like lead as she followed the officer up the winding staircase that would lead to the bedrooms. She had paused, stock still in the doorway of the master suite. The curtains had shifted in the double bay doors that she had known led out onto a south facing balcony, recalling how the view into the garden had been Amelie’s favourite place. The breeze disturbing soft duck feathers that littered the French polished floor boards as the waft of cherry blossoms intermingled with the metallic tang of blood. 

The officer had stood to one side remaining respectfully by the door as Angela had slowly approached the bed. Many evenings had been spent sat there in her pyjamas, watching movies, discussing literature and music and drinking wine, in a bid to keep Amelie company when her husband’s long stints away on missions had sometimes become too much to bear.  
Now on that bed lay a covered over lump, one white hand limply dangling down the side the other flopped on the mattress uselessly curled beside a revolver. Peeling back Egyptian cotton sheets had revealed a pillow placed over the face, duck down feathers mottled through the hole spittled in dark maroon. She had steeled herself to remove the pillow to stare at Gerard’s once handsome face, marred by a bullet hole, unseeing eyes and lips blue from lack of oxygen. At his neck, tell tale bruising where slender yet forceful hands had squeezed

She had collapsed into a nearby chair and wept. 

“We think there was in intruder. Someone he brushed up the wrong way. Bound to happen in his line of work.”

She had ignored his incompetence at the glaring facts. Better the locals think it was an intruder, rather than the dark suspicions that had grown in Angela’s mind.

“Where’s Amelie?”

“Who?”

“His wife!” 

“We didn’t know she was meant to be here.”

“Find her!”

With a crackle of comms and urgent whispers in French she had been left alone. And that is how the Overwatch leader had found her, in that room that stank of death failure and regret, beside the body of their friend. Morrison had drawn her into a hug as she had sobbed over and over, 

“I was wrong Jack. I was wrong!” 

Suddenly Tracer’s usual chipper voice replaced with gentle reproach, brought her back to the present.

“Are you ok there Angie?”

Cupboards banging echoed through the apartment. Looking up into Lena’s expressive face, Mercy gave the concerned young woman a small smile, 

“I’m fine.” 

“We’re gonna help her, right?” Holding up a surveillance sweeper, Tracer began scanning the walls, “I don’t wanna but it’s the right thing to do, init?”

The plucky pilot had been still been classed as MIA when the Lacroix incident had occurred and probably only knew Amelie as the Talon codename of Widowmaker. God only knows, she had every right to hate her; Angela had patched the youngster up plenty enough times after she had come worse off grappling on roof tops with the assassin and how crushed she had been after the murder of Mondatta yet the girl’s understanding and good nature gave Angela some hope. 

“You’re a good kid, Lena.”

Lena let out a puff of air as she tossed her head in attempt to remove a lock of her unruly hair from her face, a habit she had and a tell-tale sign she was nervous at accepting the compliment. The Lieutenant returned holding out a threadbare bed sheet, 

“This is all I could find.”

“It will do.”

Tracer continued to check the walls and surroundings as the two other women struggled to manoeuvre the Talon operative onto the sheet. Each taking two corners of the makeshift sling they grunted under the weight as they shuffled out into the sitting room. Angela worked quickly and with a practised ease as she firmly but gently pressed a stethoscope to a blue breast bone causing Widow’s skin to give an involuntary shudder. Holding her breath, the Doctor listened intently for tell-tale signs of a heartbeat.

Ba dum. There it was, weak but there none the less. She counted out the seconds. Ba dum. slow, far too slow than was humanly possible. A number of medical situations ran through her head. 

Hypothermia. Was it even possible for Widow to suffer from hypothermia?

Flipping the stethoscope over neck she fished out a small flashlight and began to lift up Amelie’s eyelids to reveal sclera littered with purple dots similar to petechial haemorrhaging. 

“She looks like a djinn.” Came the soldier’s brusque tone.

Rifling through her bag Angela realised she was woefully unprepared for the situation. The last time she had attempted to administer aid to one of Moira’s experiments it had resulted in dire consequences from which no amount of science could return. She was damned if she was going to run the risk of another Reaper happening by her hand. 

“We need to bring her to my lab.”

Momentarily, Tracer paused what she was doing,

“Ange, are you barmy? We can’t just waltz into Watchpoint with one of the enemy’s top agents. Its espionage 101, that is!”

From her vantage point leaning against the wall, Fareeha added,

“Thank you for being the voice of reason.”

“I can’t treat her here, I don’t have what I need.”

“Can’t you just zap her with your staff?”

“It doesn’t work like that Lena. Her physiology is beyond field medicine. One wrong move and she could die, or worse.”

“What could possibly be worse?” Fareeha muttered, darkly.

Lena cocked her hip, the beeping of the sweeper forgotten, 

“Look I’m not saying that we’re gonna,”She stressed the words, “Or that we should, but if we were, how the hell we supposed to get her out of here? Its not like we can just mosey on down the stairs and hang a right at the elevator.”

The two older women glared at each other.

“In a body bag.”

“Fareeha, you’re not helping.”

Before another argument could ensue, Lena butted in.

“No she’s right! Think about it.” Lena began to pace, “We pop her in a body bag and Bob’s your Uncle if there’s anyone watching they won’t know who we have and they will assume whoever it is dead!” Tracer vibrated with excitement, “Its genius!”

Anglea added, thoughtfully,

“We do have one in the hovercraft. Its standard issue.”

Fareeha rubbed her temples staring at Mercy. After a long moment she let out a deep sigh,

“I want it on record that I think this is reckless and I’m against it!”

“Mint!” the Brit almost squealed before there was a pop and she zipped out of the door in a flash of light. 

Putting her hand to her ear, Angela activated her comm,

“Genji, I need you to contact the base and tell them to prep the secure lab. Protocol 1426, contingency WhiskeyMikeAlphaLima.”

Pushing herself off the wall, Fareeha asked,

“Why are you doing this?”

“I have a duty of care.” Angela replied, softly.

“Are you sure that is what this is?”

Angela studied the woman across from her. She sometimes forgot just how astute she was and how well over the last few years she had come to know her. Fareeha had been out in the field as a member of the Egyptian Army when the ‘Lacroix Incident’ had occurred but it was common knowledge to her mother and the other senior members of Overwatch that Angela had taken to personally shouldering most of the blame. She and Amelie had been close, not being part of the gung-ho commandoes; they had found an appreciation in other things such as the arts and a mutual respect had blossomed into a firm and fast friendship.

“I failed her once, I won’t fail her again.”

Fareeha’s features softened, as she quietly replied, 

“Alright.”

Tracer popped, breathlessly back into room, triumphantly holding up the bag,

“I got it.”

Taking the bag from the girl’s unresisting grip, Angela unfolded it, hating the sound of the heavy duty rubber. Too many times she had need of such a thing and she had always loathed the feel of it. The Egyptian soldier reached out to help her taking a corner to unfurl it next to the comatose assassin. 

“Gather everything. And I mean everything. Not a single trace she was here. Understand?”

Lena buzzed about in a blue blur grabbing everything she could find, only pausing to flick the locks on an expensive state of the art guncase to find Widows Kiss safely cloistered within. 

“Score!” 

The two women lifted Amelie into the bag, careful not to zip it up all the way. All three Overwatch agents looked at each other.

“Now what?” Asked the Londoner .

The lieutenant shook her head, 

“I can’t believe I’m asking this. How close can you get to the building?”

“How close you want it?” 

Mercy’s head snapped between the young women,

“What are you thinking?”

“We go out of the window onto the balcony.”

Lena grinned, 

“I like your style!”

Fareeha pressed.

“Can you do it?”

Lena struck a cocky pose, breathing on her nails and making a show of dusting then against her shoulder, 

“Course I can.They don’t call me an Ace for nothing.”

“Are you both crazy?”

“What other option do we have?” Fareeha asked, “Do want to risk dragging her ass through a civilian housing hub. All it takes is one idiot with a holocam and we’re all over the news. Puft, so much for a clandestine mission.”

“Can I do it, Mom?” Lena asked with an enthusiasm that belied the gravity of the situation. 

Blinking in disbelief Angela waved her off. Tracer clapped her hands excitedly before, once again disappearing in a haze of blue light casting after images of where she once stood, leaving the two women alone.

“Thankyou.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. When it goes wrong and it will, you can be the one to explain it to my mother.”

The low thrum of the hover craft heralded its arrival. Through the window Angela could see Genji hanging casually in the aircraft doorway. A gust of wind entered as Angela opened the door as Fareeha , with Widow’s limp body unceremoniously slung over her shoulder, took Genji’s outstretched hand the cyborg making ease of pulling her into the awaiting craft.  
Once there precious cargo was inside Genji began collecting the remnants of Widow’s belongings.

With one last sweep of the bathroom, Angela spied a small bottle. Picking it up, she gave it shake, the sound of pills rattling within. Slipping it into her pocket, she quickly grabbed her med bag.

“Are we ready Dr Zielger?”

Anglea nodded. 

Stepping into the hovercraft, she gave one last glance as the bay doors closed behind her, Lena’s chipper voice coming over the comms,

“Welcome to flight Tracer. Keep all seat backs and tray tables in the upright and locked position. Please be aware of the overhead compartments as things may shift in transit and knock you the fuck out. Our ETA is two hours. Sit back and enjoy the ride!”


	4. CHAPTER 4  FAREEHA

“SHATTERED CHAPTER 4” 

 

(FAREEHA)

 

The lights of Watchpoint Gibraltar’s runway stretched out beneath them in the dark as they approached twinkling an inviting path, guiding them home. With a steady experienced hand Lena smoothly brought down the small craft lightly kissing the asphalt. Fareeha moved to the back of the craft waiting as the Doctor did one last check of Widowmaker’s vitals. The lieutenant tightened the straps of the gurney, the thick webbing biting into the rubber of the black body bag, ignoring Angela’s look of reproach. Damn it to hell, the security officer was taking no chances. 

Lena hopped out from the cockpit, a grin breaking her face as Genji handed her Widow’s gun case, 

“Don’t mind if I do!”

As the ramp lowered, the pilot found herself the focus of numerous laser pointers centred on her chest and forehead, a chorus of metal on metal and high pitched whines as guns were cocked and pulse rifles charged. She dropped the gun case, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. From the depths of the craft Fareeha heard her flippantly say,

“Steady on there chaps, I give up!” Tracer playfully wiggled her finger tips, “I’d say I was unarmed but that would be a fib.” 

Close behind her, Genji sighed,

“Do you really have to antagonise them?” 

“Ahhh come on mate, it can’t be all doom and gloom now, can it?”

The security assault team remained trained on her. One of the guards barked,

“Where’s the prisoner?” 

Lena flicked her thumb pointing back into the aircraft, 

“She’s in there.”

Picking up Widow’s gun case, Lena made her way down the ramp with Genji quickly on her heels, their friendly bickering lost on the wind. Touching her comm, Fareeha commanded, 

“Gonzalez,” 

“Yes, Sir?”

“Alpha team 2, prepare for prisoner removal to secure MED bay 12B, initiate protocol 26.”

The ex-Helix officer had handpicked and trained the security team herself with months of drills, going over countless scenarios covering every eventuality that could possibly arise from removing and transporting a high impact prisoner. Outside there would be twenty six highly trained soldiers fanned out, staggered at intervals on the runway, four snipers concealed in opportune vantage points rounding the number to thirty and medical personnel kept at a safe distance in the building until given the all clear to approach. Still not entirely secure in her place at the newly formed Overwatch, Fareeha needed this to go without a hitch to prove, that Morrison had not made a mistake in recruiting her against her mother’s wishes, that she was a valued asset to the roster. 

Unholstering her pulse pistol the Egyptian soldier directed the muzzle at the comatose form, motioning with a tip of her head for Angela to proceed. The doctor went to move as if to release the gurney’s brakes, Fareeha stopped her,

“We’ll meet you in the assigned MED bay; my team will take care of the rest.”

“I’m not leaving my patient.”

“The prisoner is in no immediate danger, you, however, might be.”

Angela replied, her voice tinged with annoyance, 

“Need I remind you, Lieutenant Amari, I am a combat medic with years of experience in the field?”

Angela’s reprimand and brusque professional tone chafed the younger woman. She wasn’t trying to be deliberately combative; she was trying to do her job. Too many times the soldier had witnessed a lack of regard and caution, how underestimating a criminal in their custody could result in a routine removal devolving into hell ending in the death of good officers. 

“Follow, if you must, but keep a safe distance.”

The Doctor glared at her, shaking her head.

Once more touching her comm, Fareeha announced,

“Gonzalez, protocol is ago. I repeat protocol is ago.”

Two soldiers clad in black swiftly entered the aircraft, flicking the brakes on the gurney and wheeling it down the ramp onto the runway with a practised ease. Winking red laser pointers littered the black rubber of the body bag giving the impression of measles as the security team began to move towards the building with Fareeha and Angela following close behind, 

“This is a little overkill, don’t you think?”

Remaining vigilant, Fareeha replied firmly,

“No.”

The team moved like a well-oiled machine, comms alight with chatter negotiating each level, passing through encrypted security doors at intervals each one locking firmly behind them with a soft hiss leaving behind two guards behind as sentinels. Their progress was quick and fluid as they moved in staggered formation, never taking their sights off the gurney as they worked their way down to the heavily fortified fully equipped subterranean level kept specifically for such reasons.   
Entering the secure level they passed various tightly shut doors continuing onto their destination at the end of a wide low corridor.   
The MED bay was awash with surgical light, various medical personnel prepped and ready for their arrival, anticipation electrifying the room. Fareeha scanned the state of the art med bay taking in the security cameras that covered every inch of the room before alighting on the nervous eyes peering out over green surgical masks. These junior doctors and nurses were too green for her liking, though chosen from the best and the brightest she doubted any of them had the experience of dealing with a patient this lethal. Angela entered, calmly giving orders causing a sudden flurry of activity, before turning in the door way blocking the entrance.

“You will not enter; this is my domain, Lieutenant.”

Fareeha began to protest. This was no time for a jurisdictional pissing contest. Angela held up a dismissive hand,

“I will not risk contamination of my OR. My own personnel are perfectly capable of handling any situation that may arise.   
However, I shall permit two of your officers to remain outside!”

“What if she wakes up?”

“I assure you, she won’t. I fully intend to keep her in a medically induced coma until I conclude my examination and analysis of her physiology. If you wish for peace of mind, you may observe from the gallery.” 

As the door began to close, Fareeha overheard the Doctor addressing the AI,

“Athena, please would you be so kind as to alert Commander Morrison and Captain Amari to the successful retrieval of Amelie Lacroix as requested and I am about to commence my examination.”

“Of course, Dr Ziegler.”

The glass door hissed closed in the ex-Helix officers face beeping as the locking mechanism activated. Fareeha banged it with a fist, the muscle working in her jaw at the dismissal. Shoving her pistol in its holster she addressed her subordinates,

“Gonzalez, Stevens, stay here. Keep comms open and keep me abreast of the situation. If the asset makes any attempt to escape, shoot to kill. That is an order.”

Gonzalez nodded,

“Understood Sir! Shoot to kill.”


	5. CHAPTER 5  TRACER

“SHATTERED CHAPTER 5”

(TRACER)

 

Pushing open the door that would lead to the female communal showers, the ex RAF pilot was greeted by a wall of steam and the heady aroma of cleanliness and wafts of feminine scented shampoos. It was a reprieve from the stench that still lingered and Lena was convinced had got into the lining of her clothes and hair. 

Dumping her wash bag onto the bench she swiftly removed the chronal accelerator with practiced ease, stashing it into the specifically created water proof charging dock before the fine mist of minuscule droplets could play havoc with the inner electronics. Though safe in the notion that Winston would have considered such an eventually especially with her penchant for traipsing the streets of an usually over cast London and had taken steps to incorporate it into the design of the life grounding equipment’s design, it still paid to be cautious. 

With a shaky breath she checked the connection to ensure it was charging correctly and that the seals hadn’t corroded in the often damp atmosphere before punching in her personal code to insure its security. Her personal locker, not more than a few feet away, was sandwiched between Zarya’s and Mei’s, whose remained empty. Lena ran her finger over the piece of scotch tape with her name written in sharpie checking the adhesive. It has been left in the hope of on the off chance that the Eco Point operative would change her mind and return to the fold. Peeling at the edges it would need replacing soon. Lena noticed DVa Nano cola stickers had been added to the collection of pink butterflies and decals of Lucio’s frog, a sign that not only she missed the climatologist’s chipper demeanour.

Letting out a small sigh she turned the dial of the locker giving it an extra wiggle when it stuck on the number 7 as it always did. It’s not like she didn’t understand Mei’s trepidation at answering the recall, being left out in the cold by the International organisation was something they both had in common but the glaring difference being Lena had Winston who had worked tirelessly in his own time, risking court martial in a bid to bring her home safely, Mei on the other hand had woken up to the realisation that Eco Point and their team had been forgotten entirely in the fall. Lena couldn’t imagine what it must have been like waking up to find her team mates dead, trapped and with no hope of escape as they suffocated in their pods. 

Similar to a cockpit. Tight. Sucking in oxygen from her flight mask. Enclosed and inescapable. Hands fading in and out of existence as fingers tried to grasp the eject button, gasping for air, fists banging on the cockpit’s encasing . Lena’s hand instinctively lashed connecting with the bottom left hand corner of the locker door. Dented from the repeated action of over the years, it popped open. 

“Are you ok my little peroskie” came the low toned voice.

Lena blinked, quickly flicking a bright smile on her face to look at the towering form of the Russian Weightlifter; Lena barely came up to her chest. 

“Sorry, didn’t hear you come in there.”

Zarya deadpanned, in broken English,

“In Mother Russia, the element of surprise is needed to hunt Omnics. All Russians are silent. We don’t cry when we come out of mother’s womb!” 

Lena scanned the Russian’s face for a hint of a lie, finding none, she breathed in wonderment,

“Cor, blimey. Really?”

Zarya broke out into a booming laugh that echoed with the acoustics of the locker room,

“No!” a bear sized hand landed on the pilot’s shoulder causing the much smaller woman to slightly buckle under the weight. Zarya shook her head, “British so gullible.”

Water trickled in divlets along the grooves of the sculptured muscles, from Zarya’s neck, glistening on their journey along her bicep before dripping from her elbow and splashing with a little plink on the tiles. Zarya quirked an eyebrow and gave a polite cough. A flush of heat rose to Lena’s cheeks. 

“Im .. Im .sorry.” her fingers reaching out, “Your biceps are huge! They’re the size of my thighs!” 

Zarya’s grin widened and she flexed her biceps for show, nodding in permission for the younger woman to touch them. Lena tried to circle both hands round the bulging muscle and found her fingers too short. The Russian began to flex in body builder poses turning this way and that. She turned to show off her back muscles only for the towel to slip down completely. Unashamed, Zarya turned giving Lena a full frontal eyeful. The pilot threw up her hands and closed her eyes, squealing, 

“Jesus Christ!”

Zarya stood hands on her hips, revealing in her glory and teasing Lena’s reaction. 

“Do you not like the female form? “ She theatrically boomed.

“Yes! Yes!” Lena hurriedly replied whilst trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness. “Just put something on!”

The Athlete let out another rolling jovial laugh as she retrieved her towel and wrapped it back around herself.

“You feel better now?”

Lena returned it with a genuine smile and a nod,

“Thanks.”

The two women settled into a comfortable silence as they got changed, Lena stripping down to her underwear and stuffing her clothes unceremoniously in to her locker. Retrieving her wash bag, she felt Zarya ruffle her hair as she passed. 

“Come, find me when finished reports. Help me take Cowboy’s money in card game, da?”

Once more Lena gave the chornal accelerator dock the once over, testing the handle and double checking that the line of code continued to play in a loop flashing on the interface. 

“Yeah, as long as you promise to challenge Reinhardt to an arm wrestle.”

“Done. German knight no match for Russian Bear!”

With a grin Lena slipped into the shower room to the sounds of another booming laugh. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Making quick work of her shower and dropping off her dirty uniform on the way, Lena was finally able to relax in the safety of her room. The life grounding piece of equipment, once again, was safely stashed in its charging dock not a few feet from where she sat at her desk in her shorts and baggy hoodie. 

“Athena, be a luv and turn on the holopad.”

“Of course Lena.”

Whilst she waited for her holopad to come to life she stretched out from her seat yanking on a mini fridge door, blindly searching it’s depths until her fingertips grazed the familiar shaped neck of a bottle. Balancing precariously she continued to struggle to find purchase, cursing under her breath as she heard the glass bottle tip over rattling against the tray. Slowly she teased it forward by her finger nail in the bottle lid, finally coaxing it into a position whereby she could grasp it. Happy she pushed the fridge door closed with a foot whilst simultaneously unscrewing the cap off the large bottle of Bishop’s Finger. 

Taking a huge gulp of the cool bubbly liquid she praised good old fashioned home brewed British red ale. Resting one foot on the edge of the chair, she relaxed back rubbing out the kinks in her neck. After all these years she thought she would be used to the extra added weight of the accelerator and she was, until she took it off and realised just how much lighter she felt, sometimes swinging round and continuing on an often unexpected trajectory . 

“May I enquire as to the mission? All went well?” Asked the A.I.

“Yeah, after a fashion I suppose.”

Stretching up until her breast bone cracked and the muscles in her shoulders gave the tell tall sound of grating together, Lena made a mental note to ask Zarya who her competition masseuse was as she was in dire need of the kinks to be worked out. The last time she had ignored it had been at her own peril, not wishing a repeat of a trapped nerve resulting in sleepless nights, handfuls of painkillers and anti-inflammatories and being bumped off the roster until Angie gave her the all clear. 

The tinkling music of the holopad coming to life almost caused her to startle. 

“Athena. Can you pull up a report form?”

Taking another much needed sip, her eyes danced across the light screen. In a strip across the bottom international news headlines played in a loop. The top left hand corner the roster played over as to personnel away on mission, who was on active on base, who was on downtime. The little icon next to Lena winked green, DVa’s and Zarya’s green with a line through. Lucio’s red with a line through. Mei’s remained permanently grey. Lena had witnessed it flicker green once with an X through it meaning the climatologist had been using the system somewhere in the world and had no wish to be disturbed. 

The report template appeared on the screen as Lena took another gulp of beer. Swiftly her fingers tap danced across the keyboard filling in relevant information such as mission code, clicking a drop down menu adding the names of the operatives in attendance, fuel and equipment used. Her fingers paused in mid-air when she came to ‘Retrievals’. 

Her eyes flittered round the room before coming to rest on the gun case haphazardly tossed on the spare bed Lena often used as a wash basket and extra storage, a room to herself one of the many perks of being a Specialist Agent.   
Under ‘Retrievals’, she began to type furiously only to swiftly hit the back space button. Sitting back again, she absently mindedly took a sip as her eyes focused intently on the gleaming state of the art case. 

Overwatch headquarters having a state of art damping field for any such beacon or tracking device she had, in her haste to get out of her sweaty and stinking uniform, put no thought to the weapon she had so excitedly retrieved. 

It couldn’t hurt to look, could it?

Better to be sure that Talon hadn’t somehow found cutting edge technology that could circumvent Athena’s protocols. By all means that pesky Talon hacker Sombra could have found a way. 

It was her duty to check wasn’t it? Just in case. 

Leaving the bottle on the table she used her toes to scoot the chair over, the wheels spinning and threatening to go in any direction. Pulling the case closer she turned it over this way before examining the clasps and giving them a quick flick to reveal its treasures within. Nestled beside Widowmaker’s famous grappling hook gauntlet, the gun gleamed.

Widow’s Kiss. 

She doubted it was named that out of any sort of sentimentality on Widowmaker’s part, more than likely some sort of dark gallows humour, if the woman was capable of such things. Reaching out, she hesitated, her hands hovering over the sleek weapon. The light playing over the hues of black and intermingled purple coating the metal gave it the quality of a living breathing thing.

How would she feel if someone got their grubby little hands on her trusty twin pulse pistols?

Her excitement getting the best of her she unhooked the straps that kept it in place before teasing it out of its nest. It was deceptively light given the information Overwatch had gleaned that it also housed a sniper rifle barrel somewhere in its mechanics.

Fitting it snug under her arm she gave it a few experimental swings. Suddenly she jumped up, sending the chair careening across the floor, enjoying the feeling of the weight hefting it until she found a comfortable way to cradle it. Getting a good grip and holding it firm against her shoulder she peered down the sights and the barrel. 

She had been on the end of that muzzle intent on snuffing her out of existence plenty of times. And once in Numbani she had held it in her hands, firing it and instantly regretting the recoil, but in the heat of the skirmish she hadn’t had the time to admire the craftsmanship only, after the fact, wonder how someone who looked so statuesque yet frail could expertly wield such a thing. 

Turning she caught her reflection in the long mirror on her wardrobe door. Correcting her stance she admired her reflection, attempting to sound seductive and intimidating in a mock French accent, she purred,

“Foolish girrrrl.”

She stepped to one side, only to jump back in front of the mirror, 

“Mwaa ha, ha, baguette, hon, hon, croissant!” 

She let out a snort of laughter at herself in her tiny shorts and oversized hoodie with one of the most feared weapons in the world in her tiny hands and against her slender frame. 

In heady excitement her finger tips began to feel out all the tiny nodges, searching for the trigger mechanism that would open up Widow’s Kiss in all its beauty. Noting the difference in the ridges she was sure she had found the culprit. To press it was so tempting but she would look like a daft bint if once she had the sniper rifle unfolded she wasn’t able to get it back in. Who knew what protocols would be in place? For all she knew it might self-destruct reducing her and Watchpoint Gibraltor to nothing more than a crater. Thinking better of it she carefully placed it on the bed, making sure the muzzle was pointed at the wall. 

Instead she turned her attentions to the piece of equipment that made the Talon assassin glide through the air and cut soldiers in half. If Widow’s Kiss was sleek and sophisticated the grappling gauntlet came off as industrial by comparison. Positioned in the all at once soft but solid packing foam, it looked to Lena that to remove it one had to slip the arm into the gauntlet’s wrist hold and pull. Its dull grey exterior belied its predatory allure as Lena slipped her forearm into the wrist hold. Fastening it as tight as it would go she found the interior against her skin surprisingly soft and snug. The pilot gave it an experimental tug only for the full case to follow her and hang uselessly. Holding it steady with her other hand, she tugged again only for this time the foam came slightly loose from its corners. 

A tiny piece of white caught Lena’s eye. Peeking out from one of sides trapped between foam and steel of the gun case was the small edge of something . Taking off the gauntlet, Lena used her thumb and forefinger to fish out the curious object. Finally working it loose and pulling it from its hide out, she let out a small gasp. 

Only the old fashioned and rich used film stock, everyone else preferring digitalised photo frames that played a number of images on a loop or the more modern holo frames that played snippets of video that back in the ancient internet days were referred to as gifs. 

Turning it over in her hands her eyes roved the image, recognising Gérard she dropped it as if burned. Never taking her eyes of the photograph, she slumped in the chair. 

The last time she had seen him had been just before the Slipstream test flight. Being a mentor and a friend, he had drawn her into a one armed hug, telling her how proud he was of her that she had this in the bag. That he had been rooting for her to be the one picked out of all the hopefuls from the start and no other pilot had been more deserving. That morning something in her gut had told her something was off and she parted her pre-flight jitters he had reassured her, steadying her by giving her a quick nip of schnapps out of a hip flask he called Dutch courage and she had joked that was it because the French didn’t have a word for courage? He had given her a playful cuff over the ear and with one arm slung over her shoulders walked beside her as the tannoy called out that the test was about to start. As she had settled herself in the cockpit she had flashed him a quick thumbs up before he had turned walking back into the darkness of the flight hanger, neither knowing it would be the last time they saw each other. 

By the time Lena had returned Gerard Lacroix was dead, said to be killed in the line of duty. 

Gérard’s death wasn’t something that was discussed much and if it was it was done in hushed tones. Rumours had flown rife at the cadets canteena . A Talon operative had slithered like a viper, into his home, murdering him and his Prima ballerina wife in their sleep. Eventually as Lena had worked her way up the ranks and her clearance had been changed accordingly the story had taken a different twist. 

Still, details were sparse.

With shaky fingers and heart pounding in her chest she retrieved the photograph. Treating it with care and reverence she re-examined the image. A happy husband and wife on their wedding day, Gérard looking dashing and handsome in his tuxedo smiling down at a stunningly beautiful woman nestled into him, proudly showing off her wedding ring. Lena recognised the elegant and fine features. She had been up close and personal enough, usually trading blows and those pouty lips pulled back in a sneer ridiculing her. 

There`was no mistaking it, the woman in the photograph was Widowmaker. 

She had heard snippets of the sad tale of caution. She was aware that Anglea and Gerard’s wife had been close. That for years they had assumed his wife dead. That Widowmaker had been responsible for the ‘death’ of Ana Amari. Beyond that it was a relative wall of silence shrouded in mystery. 

Scooting back across the floor, Lena reached for the bottle of beer taking a sip. 

“Athena.”

“Yes Lena.”

“Pull up everything you have on Gerad Lacroix, namely to do with Talon Operative Widowmaker.”

Her thumb lightly brushed over the face of the blushing bride in thought. Why would Talon’s top assassin keep this physical form of a happy memory? A tangible part of her past? 

“Sorry luv, could you add anything to do with Amelie Lacroix to the search?”

“That could take some time Lena.”

Clearing a space on her magnetic organiser she trapped the photograph to the board with a Beefeater fridge magnet.   
“Don’t worry luv, I’ve got plenty of time.”

A chatbox pinged in the top left hand corner. 

~~ She-Bear~ @FlyBoi “Weak Cowboy dare me to a wrestle with mechanical arm. Come watch Russian Muscle crush robot reliance.”

~~DVaInternational~~ @FlyBoi. Lena where are you? McCree is in as idiot. Im gonna live stream it~~ 

Lena grinned at the invitation typing out a hasty reply.

~~FlyBoi~~ @She-Bear @DvaInternational. Lemme finish this an I’ll be over. Don’t start without me!~~

Swiftly her fingers flew over the keypad, noting time and date. Describing the mission she left out the parts about Fareeha and Angela butting heads. She catalogued the gun case and gauntlet, leaving out the hidden memento. Satisfied, she hit copy, save and send taking pains to make sure she had one copy in her personal folder and all T’s were crossed and I’s dotted. 

Quickly, she got changed,swapping out her shorts for comfy pants and slipping into her chronal accelerator before secreting it under an oversized zip up hoodie. Tugging on a pair of ked’s she checked Athena’s progress and setting her own chatbox to green with a line through indicating she was available but off duty. Carefully, she returned the Talon operatives gun back to the gun case, checking it was secure. With one last look at Athena’s progress she grabbed the case before flicking off the light and dashing out the door.

Eerie light bathed Lena’s messy room in its glow. In the top left hand corner the personal roster continued to update. Mei’s grey notification flickered in quick succession coming alight in bright green, X flashing before flashing once more and turning into a line.


	6. CHAPTER 6  AMELIE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to @call-signtracer, @thoughtfulcreatorduck, M and @brazenedminstral for your suggestions and input.. 
> 
> I aplogise, if i have gotten anything wrong, esp the spelling of the Parisian Ballet, I just found out I cant do accents over letters unless it is in spell check.
> 
> Please feel free to comment, its nice to get feedback, lets me know if im on the right track or not. 
> 
> Enjoy!

(AMELIE)

 

Here in Switzerland at Schwerin Castle, one of the few left standing in its entirety after the first Omnic uprising, a global gathering was taking place. A celebration of a huge scientific breakthrough, where technology met humanitarian needs. A break through that would secure the future of humankind. 

Hosted by Overwatch and the United Nations, important officials from across the globe were in attendance. Amelie Lacroix recognised the President of the United Secular States and her husband, the President of the People’s Republic of the Former United States and his husband. The delegates from the rather peaceful Congo Federation and she was pretty certain that the King of Britain had strolled past at some point, but she couldn’t be entirely certain as there was some sort of dispute going on to do with the line of succession. Something to do with a rather vocal Princess/ official heir to the throne, breaking the Magna Carta by getting involved with politics, namely to do with being seen as coming down on the side of the Omnics by speaking out about their treatment. 

Here in this castle, where no expense had been spared, was where palms were greased and backs were slapped. Where CEO’s, Military contractors and Government officials rubbed shoulders with the super stars and pledged their allegiance in the form of funding. As Gérard often told her, this was here that real change was enacted. 

It was similar to the soirees she was expected to attend as the Principal Ballerina at the L’opera National de Paris, looking pretty and being engaging if only to secure generous donations and funding for future productions but without the glassy smiles, vapid conversations and coquettish tittering. 

The men and the women in this room dealt in espionage and held the future of the world in the palms of their hands. 

Amelie, a renowned dancer who had performed the world over, was here in name to support her husband, but to be honest to keep the company of her friend Angela. The pair of them observed the decked out ballroom. Men and women of numerous importance milled about. The awkward sit down masquerading as a banquet long ago forgotten as people moved about freely. 

Reinhardt’s rambunctious laugh, loud enough to drown out the classical band, drew her attention. Amelie watched a young woman seemingly at ease as she regaled a small crowd, in her stiff shiny new dress uniform and far from regulation fly away hair. Finishing her flute of champagne, she gestured,

“Whose that?”

Beside her, her friend struggled to fix her fine blonde hair, mumbling through a mouth of hair pins,

“Lena Oxton, the pilot chosen to fly the Slipstream prototype.” 

Offering to take the pins from Anglea , Amelie gave the Doctor her empty flute and began fixing her friends hair, catching the wisps that threatened to escape. Realisation and wonderment dawned on Amelie,

“Oh.. Is that her?” She carefully pushed a pin into Angela’s bun, “Gérard seems quite taken with her; it’s all he talks about of late.”

Angela stood stock still, so as not to disrupt the much needed hair fixing,

“Have you not been introduced? 

The ballerina concentrated on her work, 

“No, I haven’t had the chance.” Satisfied, she gave the upstyle an experimental pat, “There.”

Flashing her friend an appreciative smile, Angela replied, 

“Oh, I think you would like her. She is an absolute delight.”

Amelie watched as the young woman animatedly made gestures that would turn a nun blue. Tipping her head and shooting her friend a sly smirk, laced with good natured sarcasm, 

“Is that so?”

Angela countered, 

“She’s a regular ray of sunshine,” Watching the young woman continue her display only for the wife of the Numbani Attache to look aghast, she laughed, adding, “If a little uncouth.”

Gesturing to a passing waiter, partially distracted by the group of, what the French woman had come to think of as gung ho commandoes.

“She’s rather young looking, isn’t she?”

Angela placed to the two empty flutes on the tray, giving the waiter a small nod in thanks before he disappeared back into the throng of people. 

“The youngest ever recruited to the ranks of Overwatch.”

Amelie reached to fix Angela’s necklace, the jewel lying slightly askew,

“How old is she?”

Angela chuckled,

“The ripe old age of 19!”

Amelie gasped,

“Surely not? It takes a number of years to learn how to be a pilot.”

“She was recruited at into the RAF at 16. Showed a considerable talent for it, I believe. Graduated the top of her class. It’s how she caught the eye of Overwatch”

“She was just a child!”

“Desperate times called for desperate measures, liebling .”

Side by side, the two friends settled into a silence as the classical band continued to play, each woman taking thought to the nature of the last few years. They shared a barely contained laugh as the self-professed ‘German Shield’ gave the tiny pilot a hefty back slap nearly sending her flying across the floor.

A tall androgynous woman, wearing a form fitted fashionable three piece suit and slicked back, flame red hair, approached the pair carrying two flutes of champagne. 

“Dr Ziegler.” The russet haired woman inclined her head, her voice a lilting enticement. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”  
Angela seemed taken by surprise,

“Dr O’Deorain. The Doctor offered Angela a flute of champagne. Angela took it graciously, continuing, “This isn’t your usual sort of thing.”

Dr O’ Deorain scanned the room, letting out a laugh as she turned her attentions to her counterpart,

“Not all of us are lucky enough to invent ground breaking technology. Some of us need to go that extra mile to secure funding for our research.” 

Angela took a sip of her champagne, 

“I was sorry to hear that your funding fell through.” 

The Irish Doctor let out a small whimsical sigh, 

“Regrettable, but such is the nature of progress and those that lack the understanding.”

Her gaze landed on Amelie as if seeing her for the first time,

“So sorry, how rude of me.” She offered the other flute of champagne, “Who is your lovely companion?” 

The ballerina’s eyes roved over the intricate stitching of the woman’s green waistcoat, topped off with the hanging delicate chain of a pocket watch. It was difficult to gauge her age with her flawless pale skin. Intrigued, she stepped forward taking the offered glass. Before Angela could speak for her, Amelie replied, 

“Amelie Lacroix.” Amelie extended her hand in greeting. The Irish scientist stared at the offereing, leaving her hand hanging in mid-air. Wondering if she had somehow offended the scientist, she added, “Gerard Lacroix’s wife.” 

The Doctor looked her up and down, giving Amelie feeling that she was being thoughtfully appraised, like a piece of art or a sculpture. Seemingly coming to a decision, the Doctor stepped forward with a sharp toothy grin and took Amelie’s hand, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grip. 

“Charmed.” The Doctor lilted in that liquid accent that Amelie was certain could give French a run for its money. “Moira. Doctor Moira O’ Deorain” She stressed the word Doctor. 

This close Amelie could make out Moira’s mismatched coloured eyes. The intensity making the ballerina take in a small gasp of air.

“Amelie Lacroix? The Principal at L’opera national de Paris?”

Amelie nodded, about to reply. Moira cut her off,

“I was lucky enough to see you perform in Swan Lake a few months ago, it was simply breath-taking. You moved as if you truly understood Odette and Odile. Your forward movement with arms extended behind really gave the impression of swift forward motion” She turned to Angela, “So many people these days just don’t seem to catch the verve of the characters.”  
Angela’s eyebrows knitted together, 

“Really?”

Moira laughed once again, it sounded like whiskey and chocolate,

“My dear Angela, even Scientists such as ourselves need to get out of the laboratory on occasion.” She raked a hand through her hair, “Would you be so kind as to allow me to borrow Dr Ziegler for a moment. I wish to ask a few questions about her fascinating discoveries.” 

The Swiss Doctor began to voice her protest as Amelie gave an encouraging push, shooting the Irish woman a smile,

“Of course. What are these clandestine gatherings for if not for sharing ideas for the betterment of our future?”

Dr O’Deorian inclined her head in agreement,

“Exactly.” As she began to lead away Amelie’s only comfort in this place, she countered. “With sentiments such as that, I have a feeling that we shall meet again soon, Mrs Lacroix.”

Amelie tipped her glass in acknowledgement as Angela threw her a pointed glare, signalling that a huge betrayal had occurred. With a wide mouth goofy grin she took few steps back, retreating in a bid to give the two scientists a modicum of privacy.  
Watching from her private vantage point the parade of opulently dressed wives on the arms of their husbands decked out in military regalia, she cast her eyes across the ballroom finally landing on her husband as he chaperoned his new charge from group to group, proudly making introductions. 

A teenager, Amelie thought, flying through the skies. Stability having only come in the last few years, the ‘child’ had more than likely proved herself in the wake of war. What would possess a youngster to commit such feats? A teenager talented and respected enough to be announced as the pilot for one of the most highly anticipated pieces of technology, deemed the weapon that would change the tide of any future wars. 

Taking another sip of her drink, Amelie observed the ballroom. She spied Jack Morrison looking stiff and ill at ease, pulling at the collar of his shirt, the look of a man far more comfortable hunkered down whilst bullets and missiles whizzed overhead, only to be drawn into a conversation with the Amabassdor from Nairobi at the behest of a dazzling Ana Amari. 

Ana Amari, a woman who by all accounts was one of, if not the, best sniper in the world. She glanced at her friend Angela Zielger ,talking animatedly with Dr O’ Deorain, so accomplished at such a young age, a brilliant surgeon and equally brilliant inventor, solely responsible for creating medicinal nanobot technology. 

At 26, what had she really accomplished? 

One could not help feeling woefully inadequate.

What was she doing? Standing here on the side-lines, what was she offering towards the betterment of the world? 

The world Gerard, Angela and Ana inhabited, shrouded in secrecy and mystery, was a far cry from her own. Often, in her day to day life she fended off over enthusiastic questions from her ballet troupe knowing her husband was part of Overwatch. She bristled as men and women alike lovingly sighed at the thought of being married to a man of mystery, wrongfully but also rightfully assuming her husband was the epitome of the Mid 20th Century classical movie spy, James Bond, idealising in their heads what her life might be like. Not knowing that it culminated in long stints of lonely nights. Even when her loving husband was home it always felt as if he was somewhere else. 

To be the wife or husband of an Overwatch agent was a life of worry and sacrifice, knowing that it was ultimately all for the greater good. 

As her ballet partners practised over and over the same dance steps that many of them should have known from early on in their careers, if they were any good, Amelie in her head practised the self-defence moves and ways to break out of holds her husband had taught her in case the need ever arose. 

She had taken a few classes, at her husband’s encouragement, of more aggressive forms of martial arts based in attack rather than defence. Her tutors had assured her that she showed considerable progression. 

Having no wish to waste the hours she spent apart from him on a whirlwind of wine tasting and dinner parties with the same people who gave uninformed critiques of the nature of the on-going crisis, whilst drunkenly gaffawing over how Yaden Smyth was a trailblazer winning his Omnic Mondatta award for best human in an Omnic production, she instead spent them pouring over the many books taken from her ancestral home library. 

When she claimed that she wished to train her ballet pieces alone, she frequented her local holo gun range. A place Gerard had brought her as a jape for her birthday. He had laughed, commenting on her scary natural talent, pulling her into a kiss before twirling her around in a waltz in front of the half frozen fountain, depicting the Maid of Orleans, as the first snowflakes of winter began to litter the plaza. 

Dipping her, he had hovered millimetres from her lips, and with that darling, roguish smile reminding her why she had fallen for him, he had murmured, 

“Madam Lacroix, after today’s performance, do remind me to stay on your good side.”

His cradling arm had pulled her closer still. Amelie’s own lips breaking into an uncontrollable cat like grin. His gaze had lingered, his hair dark in contrast to the bright light reflected off the snow. With a puff of ghostly air, he broke the tension “Would not want to make a widow of you over something as silly as leaving my socks out of the hamper!” 

Diving in for a quick kiss, he had spun away gleefully laughing before Amelie could cuff him over the ear. 

In mirth, Amelie had scoffed,

“I would do it for much less, Monsieur!”

He had scooped a bunch of flakes flinging them at her, only to slip on the cobblestones. She reached out, catching him by the lapels. As he hung precariously in the balance, between gravity and the lip of the freezing water in the fountain, he had looked up, 

“It would seem that I am in need of assistance.” 

Giving a cheeky test, she had quickly let loose her grip only to tighten it just as swift, dropping him an inch,  
“If I was to allow you perish, Monsieur Lacroix, what ever would I do with my time?” 

“Miss me and mourn me till the end of your days?” 

As she pulled him upright, he had cheekily announced,

“I am saved! Oh kind and benevolent goddess.”

She’d rolled her eyes in mirth, pulling him upright only to be enveloped in his warmth. His deer skin leather clad fingers had trailed along her face before she pulled him into a breathless kiss. 

His nose brushing hers, he had breathed, 

“Happy Birthday.”

They had stayed in each other’s warms before Gérard stamped his feet.. 

“Its freezing, lets get home!”

The next day, in the weak mid-afternoon as she sat on the sun terrace overlooking the garden watching the robins flit to and fro, trying her best to swallow the creeping resentment as Gerard gathered his things for yet another away mission, she broached the subject, 

“We have a performance of Giselle ending in Zurich in 6 weeks, perhaps I could continue on to Watchpoint?”

He had plucked the buttery croissant off the plate, 

“Sorry, dear.”

She had lovingly wiped the creamy butter out of his trimmed moustache,

“I was thinking that I would maybe take lodgings, like the other husbands and wives.”

“There isn’t many there.” He had disappeared back into the bedroom, calling out, “You’ll find it rather boring.”

Breaking off bits of the flaky pastry, she coaxed a brazen robin forward. 

“It’s just on the off season.” 

He had come back out , leaving his bag half in half out the room, taking her hand as he took the chair beside her, 

“I’m sorry. I know how you hate when I go away for so long with no idea when I’ll come back.” 

She gently turned his palm out, 

“No.. no “ Every syllable betraying her as her fingertip mapped the deep lines and callouses .. “This is what you …” Her fingertip faltered on the callous on inside of his forefinger, “What we ….Signed up for…” She squeezed his hand. “I just feel there is more that I could do. A better way to spend my time?”

He had studied her, 

“Maybe I could arrange it? “

A small smile broke across her face,

“Maybe, I could take up a little more training?” 

“Mon amour, how can I refuse, Ill set it up. “ Leaning over he kissed her on the lips “I’m sure the all famous Mercy could do with a few more helpers.”

“Mercy?”

“Your best buddy!” 

“Angela?”

Gerad had laughed as he shimmied backwards into the bedroom singing an golden oldie,

“I’m begging you for mercy.. why don’t you believe me..” 

“Gerad! No! Just no!”

His thumbs in the waistband of his pyjama bottoms,

“Im begging you pleeeeasese ,” 

“Don’t do it.. “ she begged, laughing. 

“Don’t do what?” as he pushed the waistband down. “This?”

He wiggled his eyebrows.

Getting up from the chair, she tossed the last piece of pastry out into the garden below as she stated,

“You’re an idiot.” 

“But you love me!”

“Yes I do.” As she walked towards him, she had opened her robe. “What was that about begging?”

 

He had left and remained true to his word, when 6 weeks later an overly excited Angela had arrived unexpectedly on the doorstep of Amelie’s temporary lodgings in Zurich to collect her and bring her to Watchpoint. 

The personnel there had been gracious, kind and accommodating. She had been given free rein to use any of the fitness facilities and the library, yet there were plenty of places off limits due to her lack of clearance. Angela had been a small mercy, allowing her to sit in on some of her field medicine classes where she learned how to clean and dress a wound, what every day household objects could be used in a pinch, identify infection and how to administer a hypospray. 

Ana had kindly taught her about gun care, correcting her stance on the gun range and giving her pointers about aiming and trajectory. Her accuracy enough to earn praise from the sniper and a high whistle from a dusty cowboy. 

She had gravitated to the med bay, hovering about or watching from the gallery with the other students, until one day Angela had given her a holopad and asked her to contact everyone on the list and remind them of their yearly physical. For the first time in a long while Amelie had felt useful, and began to give serious thought about her future. 

She had maybe 10 years left in her ballet career, if she was lucky. What would she do then, teach? 

The thought of another decade in ballet, surrounded by the same asinine, cut throat people, chilled her to the bone. She often felt like there was another person suffocating deep inside her, trying to claw its way to the surface. 

“Amelie, are you ok?” a soft touch to her shoulder bringing her out of her unseeing daze, “You look miles away.”

The dancer took a sip of her drink, eyes alighting on her friend having returned from her conversation.

“Do you think me wicked, Angela?”

“Why on earth would I think you’re wicked?”

Amelie gave a small sigh, 

“For wanting more.”

The Doctor’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, 

“More than what? You have a fantastic career, a beautiful home, a loving husband.”

Amelie’s nose twitched in slight annoyance, 

“Wanting to be more than that. More than a wife who looks good in a dress.” She gestured to the hall at large, at the other wives being charming and grinning as their husbands tried to be masters of the universe, “More than this!”

Her friend went to stroke a wisp of hair that threatened to come loose,

“But Amelie, you’re not just a wife who looks good in a dress. You’re one of the best ballerina’s in the world.”

Amelie waved off her hand,

“It’s still just a performance. Like Odette and Odile, ” Taking an long elegant sip, she continued “Do you ever feel like shedding you skin.”

Angela gave the French woman a curious look, 

“Whatever do you mean? Amelie, you’re worrying me.”

“It’s nothing.” The classical band struck up, the opening bars of Edith Piaf’s ‘Je ne Regrette Rien’. Amelie gave her friend a bright and brittle smile “I do love this song….. Dance with me, Angela.” 

Her dark mood momentarily forgotten, she slipped her hand into Angela’s unresisting one before leading her onto the dance floor with the other waltzing couples.


	7. CHAPTER 7 MERCY

(ANGELA)

 

Staring at the holopad, the data swimming on the screen, Dr Ziegler rubbed her eyes and stretched in an effort to work out the kinks in her shoulders and rouse a sixth or seventh wind of energy. In the early hours of the morning, the quiet of the office was occasionally broken by the gentle snores of a nurse passed out on a nearby chair. Angela went to take a sip of her coffee, a look of disappointment creasing her features when she found it empty. 

For hours the Doctor had been pouring over reports, stats, x-rays, cat scans in an attempt to piece together exactly what Talon had done to Amelie Lacroix. She and her staff had worked tirelessly through the night in a bid to stabilise the ex-operative. Simulations could only take her staff so far and they had found themselves woefully unprepared for the ever changing and unusual situation. As they examined deeper and the extent of the twisted, abnormal body modifications had come to light, her team had scrabbled to adapt. Just when they thought that they had some sense of what they were dealing with another gruesome discovery would rear its head.

Padding quietly over to the coffee maker, so as not to disturb the sleeping member of staff, Angela’s mind turned a thousand miles a minute. 

Most of the modern medical technology they had at their disposal had proven unreliable when dealing with her friend’s unique physiology and the team had been forced to resort to other almost archaic methods in a bid to keep Amelie alive. For most of the night the machinery had screamed in warning at ex- dancer’s failing health. In the confusion one of the other staff members had nearly made a grave error. They couldn’t be expected to continue giving Amelie the hyper vigilant round the clock care she needed over any length of time. Her skeleton staff had gone above and beyond the call of duty and now they were running on fumes.

A solid, viable solution needed to be found. 

The Swiss Doctor inspected the contents of the percolator, the black liquid sluggishly swished like tar in the bottom of the basin. Giving it an experimental sniff, she recoiled at the burnt, bitter smell. 

Suddenly the holopad began beeping loudly, causing Angela to rush across the room, nearly tripping over her feet in the process,

“Athena,” She urgently whispered, “Can you please cut the volume.”

“Certainly, Dr Ziegler.”

The nurse in the chair unfurled momentarily, grumbling something unintelligible, before curling back in on himself as the noise petered off.

Angela’s face was cast in an eerie glow as she drank in the data on the screen.

“Mein Gott, seriously?”

The gall to show such mocking pride in the twisting of an innocent into the grotesque! This wasn’t science in the name of progress or for the betterment of mankind. Every procedure, every operation had been an experiment to bend and push the boundaries of the very building blocks of life itself and laugh in the face of God. 

The formula flickered on the screen.

This was sheer hubris.

With a new sense of purpose, she peeled out of her white lab coat, expertly tossing it into the hamper in the corner before peeling her spare from a hook on the back of the door. 

Shrugging into it, she asked quietly, 

“Athena, please could you be so kind as to transfer the file to my palm pad?” 

From her desk she retrieved two brown pills bottles, secreting them into her pocket before flicking her stethoscope over her neck. Checking her watch against the time on the holoscreen, she noticed the personnel roster updating and a reminder of a Senior Staff debriefing at 8 am. 

“Athena?”

“Yes, Dr Zieglar?”

“Is Winston awake?” 

The AI took on an almost chiding, motherly tone, 

“Yes. He refuses to listen to my suggestions as to his health care.” The AI added, sulkily, “Maybe he will listen to a second opinion?”

Angela let out a small chuckle, 

“I’ll be sure to bring it up.” Collecting her palm pad, she headed out the door. 

“Thankyou, Doctor.”

********XXX***********

 

Dropping by the MED bay, the Swiss Doctor nodded at the guard from Fareeha’s security team stationed at the door, keying in the code before silently slipping into the room. A member of her own security team jumped up from her chair when the Doctor entered. 

“Ma’am.”

“At ease.” Mercy replied, kindly, “We’re not in the field. In here there is no need to be quite so formal.” The security guard almost gratefully sank back into her seat. Moving into the room, Angela began reading over the medical holopad, making a mental note of all the readings taken over the last few hours. “How is she? Any change?” 

A very rumpled looking nurse, hair in disarray, blinking in an effort to keep herself awake, offered,

“Not really. It got a bit dicey there when we thought she stopped breathing, but we checked it with a mirror like you said.”  
The breathing apparatus gave a faint hiss, as if aware that it was being discussed. 

Angela touched the nurse’s upper arm, giving a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve done an outstanding job. Both of you. ” Checking her wristwatch, she added, “A shift change should be happening. Go get some rest and please send on the next team due to takeover. I shall keep an eye on her.”

“But what about ….”

“Gonzalez is outside. I am sure I will be fine for the next few minutes whilst the others arrive.”

With a final nod the nurse and the guard left the room. 

From the foot of the bed the Doctor observed her old friend. Hooked up to the medical equipment and wrists cuffed to the med trolley runners the ex-ballerina looked weak and waif like, her pallor having taken on a greyish hue. Angela checked that the metal wasn’t chaffing her skin and inwardly cursed at the ridiculous protocol. Pressing the stethoscope to her friend’s chest she counted out the barely discernible heartbeat, keeping an eye on the second hand of the clock on the wall. Satisfied, for the moment, she made a note on the med bay holopad, glancing at the other notations. Her gentle yet firm and practised hands checked the IV and that the medicine was being administered properly. Working down, her eyes alighted on the garish art on the French woman’s cyan coloured forearm.

Stroking a finger along the dark lines of ink, the Doctor wondered who was responsible for the added cruelty of etching the French word for nightmare onto the dancer’s already abused body. Yet another injustice wrought upon the innocent young woman. Angela recalled how Amelie had shown a distaste for tattoos, going to far as to mock Gérard for his youthful short sightedness at his own, a relic from his days graduating boot camp with his troop in the French army.  
Now this unsightly reminder of her captivity and torture would forever mar her once beautiful pale skin. This same woman who had bubbled with excitement when a reshowing of Harry Potter had been announced and once she had got over the shock that Angela’s childhood as a medicinal protégée hadn’t left much time for childhood entertainment, had demanded that they must attend. No arguments.

Amelie had turned up in full Beauxbaton powder blue regalia, insisting that Anglea wear the Raven claw robes she had picked out for her. The infectious buzz in the cinema had caught hold of her as wide eyed she had watched the screen as the captivating story played out and Amelie kept feeding her wine she had smuggled in. After the film, the two adults had made their way through cobblestone streets screaming, “Expelliarmus!” at each other, much to local residents annoyance. They had clattered through the Lacroix townhouse front door, cackling in laughter, much to Gerard’s amusement.

The machine hissed and the drip of the IV intermingled with the ticking of the clock, the only sounds in the overly white and sterile room, a far cry from the warmth of the Lacroix household.

Angela slipped her hand into her friend’s, much like she had all those years ago. 

“Mein Liebling, you’re home now.” She gave the hand a squeeze, “And I will do everything I can to fix this. I promise.”

Amelie’s long tapered fingers gave an involuntary twitch. 

The door beeped, making a swishing sound as the barely rejuvenated MED team came on for their shift. 

She quickly went over her patient’s vitals a second time, ensuring that the correct dosages and that a constant litany of checks would be followed through on. She witnessed the fatigue in the freshly woken med staff, who would for now oversee her friend’s care, taking great pains to explain what exactly she expected and the importance of vigilance. 

She reminded them that everything had to be done by hand and eye, as in this instance, modern technology couldn’t wholly be relied upon. Any and all fluctuations or changes were to be reported to her immediately, no matter how inconsequential they seemed and she wished for a constant stream of updated data to her palm pad. She assured them that she would to be back soon to relieve them and that hopefully she would return with good news. 

Reluctantly, she left. 

***************

 

Swinging by the Senior officer’s cafeteria she retrieved a bunch of bananas, noting a passed out McCree on the battered couch, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey beside him. With a small reproachful sigh she gently covered him over with a blanket and placed the bottle on the nearby table. Quietly, she continued on her journey, padding through the bowls of the compound, her crocs poot pooting on the bare concrete, the only accompanying sound as she continued towards her destination. She was no stranger to the silence as often when she found she needed space to think, she would navigate these corridors. Once over they had been teeming with life at all hours, and she had found that between the witching hour and 4:30 am was the most optimal time for reflection. Then, she had always gravitated towards the engineering bay on the far side of the compound safe in the knowledge that she would often find Torbjorn's forge alight or Winston awake due his lack of regard for conventional time keeping, a remnant left over from being raised on the Horizon Lunar Colony. 

The wide corridors echoed almost mockingly at the peace keeping force’s misfortune. Now, they were eerily empty, a far cry from the days of bustling with recruits running in formation or full of shouts from other soldiers coming in from or heading out on missions. She shuddered in the sudden draft, hunkering down in her lab coat in a bid to keep warm and quickened her pace. 

“Athena, please could you let me in and alert Winston.”

“Certainly, Dr Ziegler.” The door began to swish open only to stop. “Please remember to give Winston the second opinion.”

Angela mirthfully rolled her eyes at the AI's mother hen routine,

“I shall Athena.” 

The door opened fully at her answer. 

Making her way down the galvanised steel ramp, she shivered in the bitter cold. Pausing at the bottom, she called out,

“Winston. I come bearing gifts!” 

Behind an array of screens she could make out a shadowy, moving lump of what looked like a pile of blankets from which came a deep voice,

“Dr Ziegler! Please tell Athena I can take care of myself.”

“If only you would.” The AI snippily replied. 

“I’m not getting involved.” Angela laughed picking her way through the various unfinished projects and inventions on the workbenches, “Though to be fair, Winston, you have dodged on your yearly physical.”

“Exactly!” Athena smugly, replied. 

As Angela approached the desk full of screens, high up on a raised dias, the lump of blankets moved, the Gorilla’s face peered out, 

“Whose side are you on?” He groused.

Angela held out the bananas as a peace offering. One large leathery hand reached out, swiftly secreting the bananas back into the pile of blankets. 

“You’ll need a jacket.” He said, muffled by the numerous duvets he was hidden in, “There should be one hung up there.” He added, “If Lena put it back!” 

Searching, she finally found the blue puffa jacket haphazardly thrown on a nearby work bench. Shrugging into it, she rubbed her hands together in a bid to encourage the circulation. 

“Why is it so cold?” She asked as she negotiated the steps that would lead up to dias. 

With his foot, the scientist pushed out a rolling chair in invitation, 

“Budget” Winston glared out from under his heavy brow, “Morrison says it is an expense we can’t afford at the moment.” He mimicked the Commander’s tone and expression, “We have more important things to spend it on, like SAVING PEOPLE’S LIVES!” 

Angela threw back her head and laughed, echoing round the workshop as she took her seat.

"Your likeness is uncanny." She glanced towards the back of the room and the door that would lead into Torbjorn's old workshop, "Why don't you relight the forge?"

Sulkily, Winston unpeeled a banana, looking like an old curmudgeon under his makeshift duvet shawl.

"I'm not going rooting through another man's workshop.." He used his foot to expertly fling the banana skin through a small wall mounted basketball hoop and into the bin, "I have a number of Phd's. I single handed built a chronal accelerator.... But that...- " He threw a dark look towards the forge. " - is beyond me."

"You're afraid of it, aren't you?"

Winston let out a huff, his huge nostrils flaring at the insinuation.

"I am not!" One thick digit pushed his glasses back up his nose. He gave a little cough as he composed himself. " Coffee?."

"Do I look that bad?"

"You do look a little peaky. -" The Doctor watched quizzically as the Gorilla reached up to an abnormally high shelf, retrieving coffee making utensils. Catching her look, he answered, “ - Lena. “

“Ah,” Angela grinned, knowingly. 

“Instant, ok?” 

“Anything is better than the sludge I have been forced to consume this evening.”

Clearing a space on his desk, far away from any electronics, he began to set out the mugs, sugar and coffee. He gestured to Angela, 

“Could you?”

The Doctor shimmied her chair back, flicking on the kettle hidden amongst piles of ignored paper work and memos. Stuck on a cork board she spied a photograph taken at Winton’s acceptance into Overwatch. The photographer had caught them in a perfect moment, Lena’s sheer exuberance, herself about ready to catch the over excited pilot. Her eyes lingered on Gabe and Jack. If only they had noticed sooner. This time she would not be found lacking. With boiled kettle in hand, she turned, 

“Winston,” Her voice tinged with steely resolve, “I need your help.” 

“With what?”

“Amelie Lacroix.”

The scientist paused, spoon of coffee hovering in mid-air, intently focused on the mug, he cautiously said, 

“I was about to enquire. Though, I don’t see how I could possibly be of assistance?”

“I need you to repurpose one of the old EKG’s. The equipment we have just isn’t able handle a situation like this. It can’t pick up her readings and when it does ….-” She began to ramble. “-My staff are exhausted. They can’t continue how they are going. What if another medical emergency came in? Heaven forbid. What would we do then?” 

The scientist threw the doctor a wary glance,

“I don’t know … Angela…"

“Please!" She stressed in desperation. "I already feel like I'm fighting a losing battle with everyone else.” Exhaustion finally catching up with the Doctor, she let out a shaky, emotional breath.. “ Fareeha …” 

“Hey, hey . ” A surprisingly soft and warm, overly large hand reached out, taking her delicately by the wrist. Anglea looked up into two huge deep set brown eyes, full of concern under the heavy set brow “I never said I wouldn’t help. I’m just wondering if *we can only afford 2 ply toilet paper* Morrison will allow it.” 

“Don’t you worry about Jack. Ill handle him.”

He studied her for a long moment before nodding his head,

"Alright then."

She returned it with a watery smile and a sniff,

"Thankyou." 

Suddenly she began patting her pockets in a panic, only relaxing when she found the palm pad. Pulling it out she began to read the data, her brow knitted together in concentration. She felt the Gorrilla's gaze on her once more.

“When was the last time you slept?” 

Angela checked her watch,

“36 hours ago.”

Winston gave her a look of reproach, 

“That’s it.” Unfurling himself, he knuckled across the floor, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on. There’s a cot in the back set up. There’s plenty of blankets and close to the only heater in this whole place.”

Surprised, Angela started,

“I thought you..”

Placing a firm hand on her back, he guided her through the work shop, 

“It’s for Lena. She has trouble sleeping sometimes.”

“But I can’t!” She began to protest in a rising panic, waving the palm pad as if it would somehow shield her. “I need to keep an eye on things.” 

He deftly plucked the device from her resisting hand, slipping it into his own lab coat pocket.

“I’ve got it.”

“But what if.” 

He gave her an encouraging push towards the cot,

“It won’t. And if it does, I’ll wake you.”

She continued to protest,

“We have a debriefing at 8!” 

Helping her peel out of her jacket and lab coat, he reassured her,

“I know, I know. That gives you a few hours.” 

Once again, she went as if to protest only for the ache in her bones and muscles to catch up with her. Surrendering, she sank back gratefully into the soft cot and warm blankets, 

“Go to sleep.” He added, not unkindly, “You are no good to anyone dead on your feet.”

Carefully, he tucked the blankets around her. Angela caught a whiff of bubble gum and sandalwood as her eyes began to droop. As she drifted off, she caught Winston folding her jacket, checking her palm pad, before knuckling back off into the depths of the workshop. She heard his deep baritone call out, 

“Athena, pull up a live feed to the security cameras in the MED bay. And any schematics for any old equipment we have lying around. Let’s see what we can do.”


	8. CHAPTER 8 FAREEHA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. 
> 
> Happy halloween and first day of winter.. Hope you all had fun. 
> 
> Here's another chap. Hope you like it. 
> 
> If you could please comment or hit the kudos button if you like.. 
> 
> Or make a helpful comment. :)

SHATTERED PART 8 

(FAREEHA)

Nestled in the warmth of the blankets, Fareeha was startled awake by an alarm. Instinctively, her arm shot out towards the offending sound. Feeling around blindly for the plastic dairy cow and its abrasive mooing, a joke from Angela to herself, she cursed under her breath before finally finding the button to switch it off. 

Instinctively, she hunkered back under the duvet, wriggling backwards in an effort to find Angela’s warm embrace. Finding nothing, she rolled over, her gaze landing on the untouched pillow. Reaching out a hand to smooth the vacant spot beside her, she was met with stone cold sheets.

She didn’t know what she had expected as she was no stranger to the gruelling work schedule the Swiss surgeon often chose to keep. Angela was loath to leave the charges under her care in the hands of others. Often putting the care of others before herself, her willingness to go beyond the realm of what was humanly possible was, in part, what made her such a good doctor. 

And that is how, a few years before, the Helix security officer had found her, blood splattered and exhausted, overseeing the running of a makeshift hospital in a refugee camp in the Middle East, working herself to the bone in an attempt to administer care to those displaced by the war over land and resources. The level of dedication she showed had been akin to a nun in penance for some great sin, which on the ward had earned her the moniker of Angel. 

After the soldier’s mission was complete and her team had returned to base, Fareeha had opted to stay behind. Her superiors had assumed it had been to train the hastily put together militia whose job it was to protect the hospital, but in truth it had been to stay close and look after the woman whom she had a crush on for many years. 

Their courtship had started off slow and awkward, mainly in part due to Fareeha’s own shyness and lack of experience, but over time it had blossomed into something steadfast.

With a deep sigh, the Egyptian woman rolled onto her back, peeling back the duvet a little to peer into the darkness of the room. Her eyes glanced at the offending cow, 5:45am winking back at her as it jovially continued to roll its head from side to side, counting out the seconds. 

Witnessing the collapse of her parent’s relationship, Fareeha had first-hand knowledge of what could happen when dedication to duty came before the ones you loved. How long stints away could add strain to an already tenuous situation and she had no wish to repeat it. 

And so the Raptor Pilot and the Surgeon had made a pact in the blood and sand of the Middle East. 

Aware of it’s importance, the early hours of the morning was their time, they would always make the effort to seek each other out, even if just for a precious few moments in between Fareeha coming off night duty as Angela headed out on her morning rounds or vice versa. 

Both married to their jobs, it sometimes left scant time for little else.

Reaching for her palm pad, she checked her message to find none from Angela, a reminder of a Senior Personnel briefing at 8am and a number of reports from her security team. Giving them a cursory glance, she was relieved to find there had been no attempt at a security breach and that the prisoner remained incapacitated. 

Well that was a saving grace at least. 

“Athena,” The ex-soldier asked, “Please could you open the blinds.” 

The frosted glass turned from opaque to transparent letting in a weak glow from the sun struggling to rise. Dark blues giving way to hues of intermingling embryotic pinks and oranges as the night begrudgingly let loose its grip.

In the warmth of the duvets she continued to scroll through the numerous emails and notifications. Landing on one from her father, she read with it with a smile. He enquired as to her health, asking after her mother and where she and Angela intended to spend Christmas, offering an invitation to spend it in Canada with his new wife and her step-brother. 

She laboriously typed out a reply, chewing on a finger nail as she paused. 

“Athena, where is Angela?”

“She is in engineering bay 4, Lieutenant.”

Curious, she asked, 

“What is she doing there?”

“Getting some much needed rest, at Winston’s behest, I believe.” 

Fareeha stared, unseeing, at the bright screen. Why had Angela chosen to sleep in the Scientist’s office? Why hadn’t she come to rest in in their quarters? Had her girlfriend taken to heart Fareeha’s handling of the Widowmaker situation?   
Saving her reply to drafts, she cancelled out of the email, choosing instead to open up an old message to Angela. 

All she had wanted to do was keep Angela and the people of Overwatch safe. Protect them as much as she could from a killing machine with no conscience. An unfeeling mass murderer was in their midst and it was her job to ensure the safety of Watchpoint. 

Surely Angela could see that? 

Her finger began to type out a message, 

~~ Why did you prefer to sleep in with the Gorilla?...... ~~

Athena suddenly spoke,

“Would you like me to contact Dr Ziegler, Lieutenant?” 

Fareeha took a huge breath in an attempt to gain control of her spiralling thoughts. She was being paranoid. Angela wouldn’t be annoyed at her for something like that. More than likely her partner was just exhausted and collapsed where ever she had lay her head. She quickly deleted the message before resuming typing,

~~ Morning nuur il-‘en, hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard. Super Ziegler to the rescue. See you at the meeting, a3sha2ik. Xx~~

“Lieutenant?”

Fareeha hit send,

“No thanks Athena, I’ll leave her to get some rest.”

The cow alarm suddenly let out a loud bellow, heralding the often needed second alarm, as report came through from a member of her squad requesting permission for leave due to an emergency.

“Ok I’m awake!” She announced in irritation, giving the clock a hefty whack followed by a bunch of Arabic expletives. Getting up, she tossed the palm pad on the bed.

What a perfect to start the day. 

\--X---X---

 

Outside the briefing room the various Senior members milled about the cafeteria as the Security officer arrived. Her hair still mussy and pillow creases evident on her face, Lena gave a yawn in greeting. Fareeha observed Zarya keeping a visible distance from Genji as he took interest in DVa excitedly showing him something on her palm pad.

She would have to set the two of them on a training session together and soon. Discord in a platoon could easily give way to a breakdown of communication in the field resulting in putting people’s lives in jeopardy. 

Jesse remained where they had left him last night, sprawled out on the sofa, snoring softly.

Some things never changed.

Fareeha gave the base of it a kick, 

“Wake up, solider!”

The gunslinger startled awake, hand on holster about to draw. Bleary eyed, he attempted to get his bearings, only taking his hand off his hip once he realised where he was. 

“Oh, it’s you.” He mumbled in his Texan drawl. Sitting up, he rubbed a hand down his sleep creased face and through his long unkempt hair as he retrieved his Stetson from the floor. “-You ever think on going easy on a man?”

Lena let out a barely contained snort of mirth. Ignoring the pilot, Fareeha shook her head at his display, 

“You look like shit.”

Dusting off his crumpled hat before slipping it over his long hair, he sarcastically replied, 

“And you look as radiant as ever.” 

“If you were one of mine, you’d be doing laps right now.”

Pulling a hip flask from within the depths of his pockets, he took a long guzzle. 

Fareeha began,

“Are you..”

He interrupted her, holding up one finger as he continued drinking. Satisfied, he screwed the cap back on, 

“But I’m not. Am I?”

“You’re a fucking disgrace.”

Standing up, he came to eye level. “Not everyone can be as honourable as you – “ Straightening his shoulders in a stretch, “- Lieutenant.”

For a tense moment, the pair eyeballed each other, before Fareeha broke into a grin. 

“You better be ready for sparring later.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darlin’.”

“Watch it Cowboy.” Fareeha felt a pair of warm arms snake round her waist. ”The only person who gets to call her that is me.” Turning her head, she was met with Angela smiling up at her. A soft pair of lips lovingly pressed against her cheek. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make breakfast.”

Fareeha’s eyes darted to the others waiting, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she rushed,

“No.. No. . It’s ok.”

Moulding herself into Fareeha, she gave her a loving squeeze,

“We’ll grab lunch in my office, yes?”

The security officer replied with a mute nod, afraid to speak in case her voice failed her, causing Angela to break into a huge smile. Once more, the Doctor left a lingering kiss on her cheek before disappearing into the briefing room.

The gunslinger grinned at her wolfishly,

“Getting a bit soft there.”

She snapped,

“Fuck off, Jesse”

They all filed into the office. 

Lena made a dash for the sofa only for McCree to grip her by the scruff of her collar with his robotic prosthetic, hoisting her out of the way and in one swift move that belied his hung-over look, plopped himself on the seat.

“I can recall don’t you know!”

“Oxton, “ Morrison barked as he entered the room, “How many times have I told you, no recalling in the briefing room!”

“Spoilsport!” Lena replied churlishly. Sticking out her tongue at the grizzled super soldier's back. 

“Yee fuckity Haw! Jesse smugly announced, as he spread out across both seats.

“Language!” Ana Amari reprimanded as she closely followed behind the Commander, her arms laden with confectionary boxes and stacks of coffee. “ - A little help?”

Genjji and Zarya moved to help her, a brief moment of indecision on the Russian weightlifter’s face, before both took part of the parcel. At the head of the table as he began read through his palm pad, Morrison groused,

“I hope that didn’t come out of the budget.”

Ana took a seat beside him,

“Don’t worry Habiiiti, it came out of my own wallet.”

“Good! We can’t afford luxuries.”

“Like heat.” Standing by the edge of the sofa, where there was most room, Winston muttered under his breath causing Lena to snort. Morrison looked up, glaring,

“Yeah well, when you start paying the bills then you can touch the thermostat. Untill then.”

Sitting cross-legged on a chair, eyes firmly glued to her hand held console, DVa added snidely,

“Yes. Daaaaad!” 

Without looking up the Mech pilot held up a hand, Lena leaned over, hitting the young woman a high five.

“Noice!”

The smell of fresh coffee roused McCree from his seat.

… “Mama Amari –“ He took her face in his hands and landed a hard kiss on her lips. “-Marry me!” 

Laughing, she gave him a playful cuff round the head causing his Stetson to tip.

“Knock it off.”

He gave her a roguish smile, showing his pearly whites, in stark contrast with his 3 days’ worth of dark whiskers as he picked up one of the coffees. He turned to sit back down only to find Winston taking up the sofa and Lena casually sat on the back, her legs dangling over the burly shoulders. The scientist gave the cowboy a grin showing his huge canines as Lena flipped him the Churchill victory fingers.

With a scowl, the Texan took a nearby chair, 

“Now that’s just rude!”

The pilot flashed a sunny triumphant grin,

“YeFuckityHaw!” 

Genji fist bumped her. With barely bridled rage, Morrison barked, at their antics,

“For the love of Christ, can we start!”

A chorus of “oooooo!” went up from the room, giving way to chuckles of laughter as the team reached for coffees and pastries, swapping orders . Morrison groaned, 

“I should fire the lot of you.”

In a chair beside Angela, Fareeha observed the comedic triple act as Winston, Lena and DVa went through their ritual of the gorilla and pilot holding each other’s pastry and coffee hostage only for DVa to grab them both, leaving the pair empty handed.   
It almost felt like the old Overwatch. The Overwatch she had grown up in and had so desperately wanted to be a part of when she was old enough. She looked over at her mother, who was blowing on her drink. As if knowing she was being watched, she looked up, flashing Fareeha a smile and a wink. 

Sitting in his chair at the head of the table, Morrison began,

“Right, if we are all ready. Athena take the minutes.” Pausing as people settled down. “I’ll keep it brief. ” He hit his palm pad, only for a chorus of beeps and pings to go round the room as the message delivered. “As I’m certain you all know, Talon operative, Widowmaker came into our custody last night.” 

Everyone head bowed, began checking the new notification, as the Commander continued, 

“We were notified of her location and we arrested her as due course.” 

The ex- Helix officer looked up in surprise. Everyone was engrossed in their palm pads apart from Lena whose face was scrunched up in confusion. The British pilot looked as if to speak, before Ana cut her off, 

“What is her status at the moment?” 

Putting down her coffee cup, the doctor replied, 

“She is heavily sedated. I think for all concerned, it’s for the best.” 

Morrison nodded in agreement, 

“All leave is cancelled for the foreseeable future except for a dire emergency." A collective groan resounded round the room, " Some of you may find that you are rostered for security duty under Lieutenant Amari’s command."

All eyes turned to Fareeha, who tried not to shrink, as if it was personally her fault,

“I shall call you in as I need you.” 

Morrison stood up as if for emphasis,

“I don’t need to remind you all that Widowmaker is a valuable yet highly dangerous asset. She will not hesitate to cut you down if you get in her way.”

Ana looked up from her palm pad.

“I can attest to that.”

“Hyper vigilance is key. Is that understood?”

There came a chorus of nods and agreement. 

Satisfied, the Commander sat back down. 

“Secondly, we shall be having a new recruit arrive in the next few days. I want you all to make him feel welcome.”

A feeling of anticipation bubbled through the room, replacing the sombre mood. DVa’s eyes became bright with excitement, 

“Is it Mai?”

“I’m afraid not.” The small, Korean girl visibly deflated, as Morrison continued, “Mai is LOA, indefinitely.” Zarya laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. The Commander began to scroll through his palm pad. “He goes by Zenyatta. Genji , Lena, you’re the official welcome wagon. Sparring shall be run by Captain Amari today. I expect full attendance unless on Security duty.”

Lena asked,

“Who is he?”

 

“You’ll meet him in a few days.” He looked around the room, “Anyone anything of pressing importance to report?” The room remained oddly silent. “Good. You all have your missions, move out.”

There came a sudden commotion of chairs being scraped back and the low babble of grumbles as the team began to file out of the room. Jack shouted over the noise,

“Make sure to send on your dailys!” 

There came a chorus of different acknowledgements. The soldier paused in the doorway. Coming to a decision she closed the door, whirling round on her mother, commanding officer and her girlfriend, demanding,

“Why are we lying? Why aren’t we telling them the truth? We didn’t arrest Widowmaker.”

With a steadfast gaze, her mother gave a small sigh, 

“It’s better this way. We don’t want it to get out that she is under our protection.”

“Under our protection? So you knew it was her before you sent us in?”

Jack looked her in the eye, 

“No, Lieutenant, we told you everything we knew.”

Her mother smiled at her from her seat beside Morrison 

“Once things ease up, you me and Angela need to do dinner one evening. Its been far too long.”

“I’d like that.” Angela replied. 

In confusion at the sudden turn of events, Fareeha dutifully nodded,

“Yes, of course Mother.” Her hand rested on the door handle, “Are you coming Angela?” 

The Doctor shook her head,

“We still have some things to discuss.”

Morrison waved the soldier off, 

“Admin stuff, rosters, budgetary constraints.”

All three of them sat quietly, waiting patiently for her to leave. 

Once outside, Fareeha couldn’t stop the bubbling feeling of being placated rising in her chest. Stunned, she paused in the cafeteria only to be met with Lena leaning against the wall, waiting,

“What the hell was that?”

Through the sheer glass wall, Fareeha watched as Angela, tossed something on the desk and continued to pace as her mother and Morrison gave her girlfriend their full attention. 

“I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”


	9. CHAPTER NINE  AMELIE

(AMELIE)

High up in the French Alps, Amelie carefully eased the light sports car round the airpin bend, navigating the twisting and turning roads that often gave way to sudden steep drops offering her breath taking views of the sweeping countryside of Annecy. As she eased the car down a sudden incline that looped back on itself, descending to the lush valley below, she tapped a perfectly manicured finger nail against the screen of her scroll, 

“Angela, can you hear me?”

A voice like one of earlier Omnic models replied, accompanied by the tell-tale crackle of static feedback. As she continued to descend, the doctor’s voice began to come through clearer, 

“… ould have come wit.. busy here.. accident..”

Crinkling her brow, the ballerina tapped the screen again in frustration, 

“I cant hear you. The reception has always been crap up here. One second.”

Placing both hands on the wheel, she concentrated as a smaller car began to approach from the opposite direction. Normally this mountain pass would be backed up, a sluggish snail snaking down the mountainside but thankfully the busy season was beginning to wind down and the ‘pearl of the French Alps’ would return to its quiet and peaceful existence. 

It had only been a few months since Overwatch’s great technological triumph had resulted in disaster, the highly specialised aircraft had phased out of existence and fallout around the accident was astronomical. Every newspaper and TV pundit speculated to the exact nature of the ‘Slipstream Incident’. 

Was it an accident, or was it sabotage? 

One publication had gone so far as to have a small tally, counting the number of days the pilot had been MIA. Others had reported every minute detail of the young woman’s stellar career in the RAF, hailing her an Omnic Crisis Hero cut down in her prime. A King’s Row street rat done good. 

Nobody had known where the leak to the press had sprung from, but the speed and the intimate details of it fueled paranoia in the ranks of Overwatch.  
In a bid to plug it, all none personal had been asked to leave the bases and all Senior Members had been recalled for the unforeseeable future in an attempt to enact damage control and not allow other agendas to fall by the way side. 

All the while, no matter what they tried, Overwatch’s best and brightest couldn’t find the answers to the most burning question. 

What had happened to Lena Oxton? 

At the news that the higher ups were winding down the search and allocating resources elsewhere, Gerard had been beside himself. He had parted that Lena had told him that something hadn’t felt right but he had pushed her, brushing it off with bravado and schnapps. He talked of personnel claiming to have seen his protégé’s ghost on the base and the Gorilla had taken to cloistering himself in the hanger where the accident had occurred, not surfacing for days at a time. 

In a bid to get to the bottom of it, Gerard had taken on yet another away mission that only served to drive the wedge further between him and his wife. 

Amelie had admonished that she understood, but she felt that he was pushing himself, and Gerard had snapped uncharacteristically, demanding, 

“What could you possibly know? You’re a dancer for christ’s sake! - ” He had taken to pacing, his eyes taking on a wild look, “- So you took a few classes. You have no fucking clue what this entails, that someone could have done this deliberately, snuck in and took one of our own, from right under our noses! -” In a rising rage, he had thrown his clothes in his mission bag, “- If it was me, I’d want my mates to get to the bottom of it and bring those fuckers responsible, to heel!-” He had poured himself a lavish dram of expensive whiskey as he continued on his angry tirade, “- If it happened to me, is that what you’d want, me to be left behind, forgotten? Why don’t you stick to what you know, Amelie, and let me get on with my job?”

Gerard’s dismissal had felt like a slap in the face. That he deemed her attempt at improving herself and taking an interest as nothing more than a flight of fancy that he indulged. Placating her rather than listening to her grievances or realizing that she was becoming increasingly unhappy.

That she did in fact know what it felt like to be constantly reminded that in a blink of an eye a loved one could be gone forever. That she lived it every time he walked out of that door without a backward glance, instantly forgotten. 

He had spent the next few nights in his study on the chesterfield, whilst she had made arrangements to begin renovating her families ancestral home. With an appointment to keep with a surveyor, she had risen with the sun, leaving him a note before setting off on the long drive towards Chateau Guillard in the South of France.

Hitting the valley floor, her scroll crackled back to life, 

“Amelie? Are you still there?”

Coming to a T junction in the valley floor, Amelie leaned forward checking both left and right, 

“Oui, Angela, I’m still here.”

Her best friend continued, 

“I was saying that I would have joined you, leibling, but everything is up in the air right now.” There came a pause of indecision, “-How long are you planning on staying for?”

Satisfied there was no on coming traffic, Amelie took the left turn that would gently snake along the lake side, away from the nearby village, and up through some trees towards the driveway that led the boathouse and only point of access to the grandiose Chateau,

“As long as it takes to make good headway on the renovations,” She gunned the engine, her beloved sports car purring as it began to eat up the tarmac with ease, “ It is far easier for me to co-ordinate from here than back in Paris.” In the distance she could make out the tip of the north bell tower, the rest of the property obscured by the hillside and heavy forest, adding sourly, “-I am ‘sticking to what I know’ and being a dutiful housewife.”

“Amelie, “ On the end of the line there came another pregnant pause, as if Angela was carefully choosing her words, “- I’m … I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

Amelie sighed, maybe she was over reacting and choosing to quite literally run for the hills was petty, but she had no intentions of rattling round their Parisian home with Gerard’s words echoing off the walls, mocking her and calling out her already felt inadequacies, for however long his chosen mission took. And neither could she ignore the anger that during the long drive had fashioned itself into a dull rage sitting in the pit of her stomach. No, she would be much better off throwing herself into a project and far away from the continuous press cycle that didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.

“I don’t care what he meant, it’s the fact he said it in the first place.” Either side of the road the trees were struggling with their Spring plumage allowing shafts of morning sunlight to break through the branches dappling the road ahead, as Amelie pressed on, the speed of the car matching her mounting frustration, “-I’m sick and tired of being side lined, Angela. All I have ever done is support him and now I just feel like …. Like I’m being taken for granted.” 

The ballerina slammed on the brakes so as not to over shoot her turn off. Peering through the rearview mirror, Amelie slowly reversed back before carefully easing the low sports car in between two beautifully sculptured gateposts with her family crest intricately engraved into their surface. 

“I know he’s stressed and I might sound like a spoiled bitch but…. I need some time alone… I need time to figure out what I’m going to do with myself.”

As the car slid down along the smooth driveway, a break in the trees offered an unadulterated view of the sweeping turrets and stone verandas that made up her idyllic childhood home in the centre of the lake, Amelie pressed a button to roll down the window and let in the fresh spring mountain air. Far off in Switzerland, Angela’s voice full of concern filled the small sports car.

“What are you saying? …. Are you thinking about getting a divorce?” 

“What? NO! God no… I’m furious, but I’m not ‘that’ furious…-” She continued to leisurely cruise along the driveway taking in the way the sunlight twinkled off the waters of the gargantuan lake that skirted her lands and the village that hugged its shoreline on the other side. “- I meant, what I’m going to do with my career, continue with ballet, or quit and find something else?”

The doctor asked, perplexed,

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes.. No.. Maybe? ..-” Gripping the steering wheel tight, Amelie took in a huge lung full of air, “-I need to clear my head.” 

“How about this?” Another pause, “How about… I finish up here. Twist Jack’s arm into making an exception, and I come down an join you? End of this week, beginning of next week or when ever I can?”

Approaching the boat house, the French woman spied an unfamiliar green car parked to one side of the closed gate that would lead into the boatyard, and a white workman’s van on the other.

“Oui, that sounds perfect!” Slowing the car to a crawl, she peered out of the driver’s side window, as a man dressed in a suit, a hard hat and high vise jacket alighted from the car. Distractedly, she added, “Angela, I think the surveyors here early. I’ve got to go.”

“Alright leibling, I’ll call you as soon as I have news. Love you.”

Her scroll let out a high pitched whine,

“Love you too, cherie.”

Canceling the call, Amelie pulled the sports car up along side the man who waited patiently on the side of the drive way, clipboard in hand. 

He broke into an easy smile, 

“Ah, Mrs Lacroix, I presume?”

Leaning slightly out of the window, Amelie looked up returning his smile, 

“Oui, oui, am I late?”

“No,-” He laughed, “I am early.” 

Using her scroll, she typed in a code and waited for the gate to begin to painstakingly slowly slide back.

“Oh thankgod, traffic was a nightmare coming out of Paris.”

He gestured with the clipboard, 

“Quite a difficult place to reach and surrounded by a lake no less. I can see why you asked for a surveyor.”

The gate slid back fully and Amelie carefully slid the sports car into the wide boatyard and into one of the waiting garages. In the rearview mirror, she watched as from the white workman’s van, two men got out wearing navy blue boiler suits and carrying work bags. 

Unclipping her scroll from its snug on the dash board, she stashed it in her hand bag before pressing her thumbprint to the ignition starter and alighting from the car. In the early morning sun, the three men waited taking in their surroundings. Approaching her as she exited the garage, the surveyor asked, 

“Would you have your I.d?” He pulled out a device from the depths of his pocket, “It’s so I can scan it and start the clock.”

The french woman blinked, 

“Yes, of course.” Pulling out her purse she teased her national identity card from its snug, “There you go.”

Gently taking it from her outreached hand, the surveyor gave it the once over, inspecting the card and looking back at her, before swiping it along the device. 

“It’s policy,-” He kindly offered, “Stops people like this lot,-” Tipping his head towards the workmen, “-Fudging the numbers.”

One of the workmen came to casually lean against the wall to the left of her,

“It’s a grand place you got here…” He slowly began to roll up his sleeves, “- Boats the only way to get there, right?”

Taking back her i.d card and slipping it back into her purse, Amelie nodded, 

“Oui, I’ve been coming here since I was a child, so I handle the boat usually.” Turning her back, she leaned up to activate the garage doors and the locking mechanism. “- If you are worried about access, the village on the other side has a much wider marina and much larger boats for hire. The cost is of no object. I’ll get a good deal.”

The workman let out a whistle through his teeth,  
“Lucky for some, eh?”

Amelie attempted to humbly wave him off, 

“No, no. My relatives left me .. shall we say.. comfortable.”

He gave her a lopsided grin, 

“Is it true you’re a Countess?”

Amelie crinkled her brow in confusion, stammering, 

“What.. what ever gave you that idea?”

His workmate gave a mirthful shake of his head, 

“What he means to say is. . When we heard of the job.. we.” He gestured with his hands, “- researched the place. It’s got a rich history.”

Rudely butting in, the first workman continued, 

“So are you?”

She opened her mouth, gawping like a fish for a few moments taking in both their eager expressions, before laughing, 

“I ,” She gestured to herself, “- am not a Countess per se. But… there is an old defunct title attached to the property , that would, if such things were important in this modern era…, make me a Countess.”

The first workman turned to his colleague, 

“You owe me 5 bucks!” 

“God damnit!”

With a small shake of her head at their antics, she finished checking that the security was locked down on her beloved car.

As she made her way across the courtyard, the three men followed close behind, nearly bumping into her when she stopped at the door that led into the boat house. Her fingers tapped danced lightly across the keypad, with a click the door opened and four entered the gloom. With a brittle bark of laughter, the surveyor patted his pockets, 

“One sec, I forgot something. Be right back.”

The other began to rummage in his work bag. On the side wall, Amelie flipped open the electric box to activate the winch that would slowly lower the sleek looking speed boat into the murky water. She turned round, surprised to find the first workman so close. He shot her a grin as she sidled past him to the safe box where the speedboats ignition key was kept. The remaining workman flanked her on the other side, so close she could almost feel the breath on her skin, the tiny baby hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle as she hesitantly reached up a finger. Trying to keep the shake out of her voice, she shouted over the screeching of the winch, 

“A little room gents.”

The second workman grinned at her wolfishly, 

“Oh Amelie, where you’re going there is gonna be no room at all.”

He made a lunge at her. Instinctivly, she thrust up the heel of her palm connecting with his nose, as she has been taught to do in her self defense classes. He staggered back, gargling and cursing as the other workman grabbed her in a choke hold from behind. She tried to scrabble into her hand bag in an attempt wrap her fingers round the pepper spray she kept there. As she struggled to breath she remembered Ana Amari’s words, if ever grabbed by a bigger opponent relax into it and throw them off. Amelie dropped her hand bag, pushing back into him, using her strong legs from years of ballet throwing them both off balance. He staggered back, the sudden loss of opposing force adding to his momentum, crying out as he collided with one of many winch handles that aligned the wall. The loss of grip on her windpipe gave her much needed inches to turn her head and sink her teeth into his muscular arm, causing him to scream in agony. She kicked out with her feet at the nose busted workman, who dodged to one side, his feet knocking her handbag into the water. 

“Get the fuck hold of her!” He yelled.

Trying to shake her off only caused Amelie to grind her teeth down, filling her mouth with flesh and the metallic taste of blood. He let go shoving her away from him. The surveyor came through the boathouse door for a split second distracting her. She didn’t see the south paw closed fist that collided with her jaw causing her to reel and her vision to blur.

“Go down, you fucking whore!” 

A second swift punch hit hard in her gut knocking the wind out of her and caused her to collapse onto the wet stone floor. 

She thought she heard the surveyor say, 

“Dont break the merchandise!”

“Cunt broke my nose!”

“Yeah well the fucking bitch took a chunk out of my arm.”

Amelie spat the contents out of her mouth, trying to suck in huge lungfuls of air. If she could just get into the water maybe she could swim to the castle like she had plenty of times as a teenager or when the boat was out of gas. She made as if to crawl.

Someone caught her by the hair, 

“No, you don’t.”

She felt a sharp prick in the back of her neck and she was left to flop on the slick flagstones. Someone turned off the winch, and the only sounds was the water lapping against the stone work. 

“She’s a god damn wild cat. Thought you said she was a dancer?”

Her vision began to swim with black and purple dots and her tongue felt flaccid and swollen in her mouth. She attempted to move but her limbs refused to her obey her. The surveyor rolled her over onto her back, crouching down to inspect her.

“Ballerina, to be exact.”

Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, the workman with the broken nose peered over his shoulder,

“She’s a fucking ballerina??”

With soft, gentle fingers, the surveyor examined her jaw, turning her head this way and that, regarding her thoughtfully. As Amelie slipped into unconsciousness, she heard him say,

“She’s the wife of THE target, what else did you expect?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like or enjoyed.. Please leave kudos .. Just a little click or even a :) in the comments. 
> 
> It is much appreciated. Dont have a KoFi or anything else. Your comments are my lifes blood. It also lets me know if I'm doing well or heading in an interesting or boring direction.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are enjoying this fic, feel free to show your support and buy me a kofi at the address below.
> 
> http://ko-fi.com/formerlyrunephoenix6769
> 
> Keep my kitten Nym in caffeine! :)


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